MY  AIN  LADDIE 


EDITED   BY 

DAVID  DORLEY 


1922 

THE  STRATFORD   PUBLISHING  CO. 
Boston,  Massachusetts 


Copyright,   1922 

The  STRATFORD  CO.,  Publishers 
Boston,  Mass. 


The  Alpine  Press,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


INTRODUCTION 

AS  LADD'S  literary  executor,  his  personal 
writings  and  manuscripts  naturally  came  into 
my  possession. 

Among  these,  none  reveals  more  intimately  the 
inner  workings  and  struggles  of  his  soul  than  the 
correspondence  that  passed  between  himself  and 
Claire,  his  faithful  friend  and  fiancee,  the  lodestar 
of  his  career. 

Ladd  dearly  cherished  these  epistles.  They  were 
kept  reverently  apart  from  his  other  writings,  and 
showed  unmistakable  signs  of  having  been  read 
again  and  again, — with  what  profit  to  his  soul  I 
leave  to  the  reader  to  judge. 

To  obtain  the  letters  Ladd  had  written  to  Claire 
was  a  more  difficult  task.  Obviously  she  considered 
it  as  approaching  a  desecration  to  share  them  with 
others;  yet  finally  I  succeeded.  She  turned  them 
over  to  me  along  with  a  short  sketch  of  her  impres- 
sions of  Ladd  when  first  she  met  him. 

What  more  natural  than  for  me  to  weave  these 
letters  into  a  tale,  and,  omitting  all  names,  present 
it  to  you  for  the  sake  of  the  dear,  dead  past — for 
the  sake  of  her  "Ain  Laddie." 

David  Dorley, 

October  19, 1919. 


2129243 


SKETCH  OP  "THE  MAN" 

By 

ONE  WHO  WOULD  THINK  SHE  KNEW 
HIM  IF  SHE  DIDN'T  KNOW  BETTER. 

WHEN  he  first  swung  into  view  a  tall  boyish 
figure,  he  caught  my  attention  much  as  a  ray 
of  light  through  the  blind  catches  the  attention  of 
a  child.  And  I  wondered  in  a  vague  sort  of  way  if 
life's  shadows  had  ever  touched  him.  Looking  up- 
ward from  the  shadows,  this  air  of  buoyant  youth 
and  happiness  aroused  my  resentment.  The  thought 
came  to  me  that  if  any  darkness  should  fall  across 
his  path,  this  almost  aggressive  contentment  with 
the  world  and  all  it  contained  would  not  survive. 

Well,  that  was  months  ago;  and  I  have  since 
come  to  know  that  his  cheerfulness  was  not  so  much 
a  careless  acceptance  of  the  world's  smiles,  as  it  was 
a  courageous  cheerfulness  of  principle  which  could 
"meet  with  triumph  or  disaster,  and  treat  those  two 
impostors  just  the  same." 

Suaviter  in  modo,  fortiter  in  re —  that  is  he.  A 
combination  of  Irish  brilliancy,  amiability  and 
adaptability,  with  Scotch  gravity  and  determina- 
tion ;  and  somewhere  in  the  background  a  bit  of  true 
British  hauteur  and  reserve — that  well-bred  barrier 
beyond  which  none  may  penetrate. 

The  character  is  simple  and  extremely  trans- 
parent— just  about  as  transparent  as  the  Great  Wall 
of  China. 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

Did  you  ever  tackle  a  problem,  in  Geometry  for 
instance,  and  after  casually  running  it  through  and 
scribbling  your  statement  on  paper,  say  to  yourself : 
"How  perfectly  easy!"  then  all  at  once  find  yourself 
puzzled,  and  then  more  puzzled,  until  you  ended  by 
owning  that  you  were  unexpectedly  and  discon- 
certingly stuck?  Just  how  it  happened  you  could 
not  tell ;  but  the  fact  remained,  you  were  stuck. 

Maybe  it  is  because  he  has  the  art  of  camouflage 
developed  to  the  nth  power.  Just  about  the  time  you 
have  managed  to  convince  yourself  that  he  really  is 
something  or  other,  you  suddenly  discover  that  he 
isn't.  Not  that  he  lacks  genuineness — oh,  never 
that !  but  rather  that  no  one  is  quite  worth — at  least 
to  him — the  sharing  of  his  genuineness. 

I  often  think  that  should  he  have  known  one 
whom  he  liked  well  enough  to  reveal  himself  to,  a 
totally  different  person  than  the  one  we,  casual 
acquaintances,  are  permitted  to  know  would  stand 
disclosed  to  view. 

Should  you  happen  in  a  moment  of  imbecility  to 
ask  him  for  a  candid  and  unvarnished  opinion  on 
any  but  the  most  commonplace  and  immaterial  sub- 
ject, like  the  weather,  the  crops,  or  the  real  cause 
of  the  Great  War,  he  will  look  at  you  with  the 
frankest,  most  confidential  gaze,  and  reply  some- 
thing after  this  fashion:  "Well,  since  there  exists  a 
difference  of  opinion  as  to  whether  Mars  is  inhabited 
or  not,  you  may,  if  you  like,  believe  that  the  moon  is 
or  is  not  made  of  green  cheese." 

Or  else  in  more  weighty  matters,  if  you  corner 
ii 


SKETCH  OF  "THE  MAN" 

him  with  tears  in  your  eyes,  and  beseech  him  in 
accents  of  life  and  death  to  tell  you  whether  he 
honestly  prefers  pink  or  blue,  he  will  smile  charm- 
ingly— that's  the  word — and  reply.  "Yes." 

His  is  a  character  that,  like  a  mirror,  presents  a 
polished  surface  in  which  you  see  reflected  yourself, 
or  any  one  in  the  vicinity :  while  of  what  really  lies 
beneath  the  surface  you  see  little  and  you  know  still 
less.  Of  the  possibilities  and  potentialities  you  may 
know  very  much. 

Truth,  courage,  high  honor,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing  are  matters  of  "noblesse  oblige."  You  don't 
give  him  any  credit  for  possessing  these  commend- 
able traits,  because  he  cannot  help  manifesting  them 
on  every  occasion.  Therefore,  take  these  for  granted 
and  let  them  pass. 

Here  is  another  trait — or  shall  we  say  gift? — that 
of  Impressing  each  one  of  his  vast  circle  of  friends 
and  acquaintances  with  the  idea  that  she  is  in  some 
way  the  object  of  his  special  solicitude, — that  her 
welfare  lies  a  bit  nearer  his  heart  than  that  of  the 
others.  Often,  when  they  can  find  a  sympathetic 
listener,  they  will  pour  forth  with  soulful  look 
something  like  this: 

"Yes,  you  know  he  was  so  worried  about  me.  He 
tells  me  I  ought  not  try  to  do  so  much,  but  you 
know.  . "  Or  like  this : 

"Oh,  I've  always  wanted  to  be  a  nurse,  but  he 
just  gets  wild  when  I  speak  of  it;  so  I'll  have  to 
give  that  up.  ..."  Or  perchance  like  this: 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  how  I  would  have  gotten  on 

iii 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

if  he  had  not  thought  so  much  of  me.  ..."  (mental 
reservation  understood — "To  the  exclusion  of  the 
less  favored").  And  so  on  ad  infinitum. 

And  the  "one  who  thinks  she  knows  better"  smiles 
to  herself,  and  recalls  the  hero  or  demigod  of  the 
Greeks  of  old,  who  was  named  Hercules.  He  was 
always  courageous  and  always  strong;  and  he 
walked  through  life  doing  good  wherever  he  saw  any 
good  to  be  done.  An  English  poet  says  of  him,  "He 
held  his  life  out  lightly  on  his  hand  for  any  man  to 
take." 

So  does  our  "man"  hold  his  life  lightly  to  be 
given  bit  by  bit  to  any  one  who  has  need  of  him. 
But  some  of  our  set  do  not  understand;  they  fancy 
he  is  exclusively  for  them,  not  realizing  that  he  is  a 
cosmopolitan,  that  the  whole  world  is  his  home  and 
his  field  of  labor. 

I  think  it  rather  amuses  him  to  be  made  a  fuss 
over;  but  to  be  canonized — that  is  different.  For 
in  proportion  as  he  is  worthy  he  naturally  feels  far 
otherwise.  And  the  sense  of  so  vast  a  discrepancy 
between  what  he  considers  his  havings  and  his  de- 
servings,  produces  a  strangely  saddening  effect;  yet 
ends  by  making  him  determined  to  shorten  the  dis- 
tance between  what  he  is  and  what  he  thinks  he 
ought  to  be.  This  is  the  finest  trait  in  his  character. 
One  may  expect  great  things  of  a  person  not  too 
well  contented  with  himself. 

CLAIRE 

The  Oaks,  Long  Island, 
iv 


FEOM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIEE 

Sunset  Cottage 

Bear  Paw  Mountains 

May  16,  1918 
My  dear  Claire, 

Can  you  picture  me  on  the  veranda  of  a  little 
cottage,  far  up  in  the  Bear  Paw  Mountains,  forty 
miles  from  the  nearest  post-office?  Don't  be 
startled !  I  know  that  you  will  find  it  rather  difficult 
to  place  me  in  such  pastoral  surroundings, — me,  the 
ardent  lover  of  crowded  thoroughfares,  and  the  mad, 
gay  life  of  the  city.  It  is  true,  however;  your  oft- 
repeated  words  of  warning  have  had  their  effect,  and 
I  am  now  a  voluntary  exile.  Silently — like  the 
proverbial  Arab — I  folded  my  tent  (pitched  for  a 
number  of  years  on  the  Great  White  Way),  and 
came  West.  I  trust  it  is  not  too  late. 

Speaking  of  "pastoral  surroundings,"  the  couple 
I  am  staying  with  own  a  large  sheep  ranch  and  are 
"pastors"  in  the  literal  sense  of  the  word.  Wish  I 
could  exactly  depict  to  you  what  a  charming  couple 
they  are!  Both  are  Scotch.  The  husband,  a  rather 
short,  hard-working,  honest  fellow;  the  wife,  a  tall, 
happy  woman,  with  a  heart  of  pure  gold.  She 
finished  training  as  a  nurse  previous  to  her  mar- 
riage; and  showers  every  possible  attention  on  me. 
I  have  a  comforable  bed  on  the  veranda,  which  I 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

have  occupied  almost  constantly  since  my  advent: 
and  one  faithful  companion, — a  large,  Maltese  cat, 
answering  to  the  name  of  Eory. 

Shall  I  be  frank?  We  promised  to  have  no 
secrets.  Well,  I  am  very,  very  lonesome.  On  my 
arrival  here,  the  change  from  my  former  position 
was  so  radical  that  my  senses  were  numbed — I  did 
not  seem  to  feel  anything.  Now  I  yearn  for  the  old 
haunts,  old  associates,  old  mother,  old  you.  Not 
that  you  are  old  as  far  as  years  are  numbered,  but  I 
like  to  give  that  title  to  those  I  reverence  and  hold 
dear.  Oftentimes  I  catch  myself  speaking  in  this 
manner  of  those  characters  I  love  in  fiction.  I  talk 
of  "old"  Tom  Newcome,  of  "old"  Scrooge.  Some- 
how the  word  rings  true.  Don't  you  think  so?  It 
connotes  reliability;  one  on  whom  we  may  depend, 
— you. 

Nurse  just  arrived  with  my  supper,  and  bids  me 
put  away  the  writing  tablet  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening. 

Good  night ! 

May  17,  1918. 

When  you  read  the  above  (which  may  not  be  for 
some  time;  since  we  post  and  receive  mail  about 
once  every  six  weeks  up  here),  I  suppose  you  will 
condemn  me  for  not  being  brave.  Pal,  dear,  it  is 
not  a  question  of  bravery  in  this  case.  You  know 
I  am  determined  to  do  all  in  my  power  to  regain 
health  and  strength;  yet  that  resolve  does  not  ex- 
clude my  feeling  this  separation.  One  is  not  neces- 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

sarily  less  brave  because  he  keenly  feels  the  difficu- 
ties  of  the  task  he  has  set  himself  to  perform.  I  do 
not  believe  in  lying,  in  calling  a  hard  proposition 
easy.  No,  this  trial  of  mine  or,  rather,  of  ours 
(since  you  are  generously  bearing  it  with  me)  is 
hard.  It  is  hard  in  the  prime  of  life  to  give  up 
practically  everything, — home,  friends,  aspirations; 
to  be  obliged,  like  the  lepers  of  old,  to  go  forth  and 
wander  in  the  desert  places — the  desert  places  where 
no  flower  blooms,  and  one  thirsts  and  pants  for  the 
things  he  cannot  have. 

Of  course,  I  have  not  admitted  this  weakness  to 
others.  With  you  I  feel  that  I  am  not  obliged  to  keep 
up  appearances, — you  understand.  Even  mother 
does  not  yet  know  the  whole  truth ;  and  I  trust  she 
never  will — until  the  time  comes.  The  day  I  left, 
she  appeared  more  than  usually  worried:  so  I 
laughingly  told  her  at  the  station  that  my  sojourn 
would  be  a  short  one ;  that  I  was  only  run  down  and 
soon  would  be  home  with  her  once  more.  But  you 
and  I  know  better,  Pal.  We  know  that  this  * '  scout ' ' 
may  never  find  the  home  trail  again,  that  he  may  be 
lost  on  the  Divide. 

I  feel  better  for  having  "fessed  up"  to  you.  This 
readjustment  of  conditions  is  terrible.  I  am  im- 
patient, and  at  times  even  rebellious.  Pardon,  dear 
Pal,  if  in  the  days  to  come,  I  lean  rather  heavily  upon 
your  brave,  little  shoulders.  I  am  utterly  exhausted, 
spiritually  and  physically,  and  filled  with  a  sense  of 
entire  abandonment,  like  a  shipwrecked  sailor  cast 
up  by  the  sea  on  an  uninhabited  island.  So,  Claire, 

[3] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

Claire!  do  not  desert  me  in  this  crisis;  for,  though 
physically  frail,  you  are  morally  able  to  support  ten 
like  me,  and  I  need  your  assistance,  oh,  so  much ! 
God  love  you,  as  the  Irish  say. 

May  19, 1918. 

My  efforts  of  the  last  few  days  in  writing  to  you 
proved  too  much,  and  caused  quite  a  relapse  in  my 
condition.  Monday  was  a  wretched  day  for  me,  and 
my  temperature  did  not  improve  with  the  coming  of 
evening — I  tossed  and  tossed  with  fever  during  the 
whole  night.  Next  morning  I  did  not  care  whether 
school  kept  or  not. 

Naturally  Mrs.  McDonnell  became  rather  pro- 
voked because  of  my  inability  to  take  the  accus- 
tomed milk  and  eggs  for  breakfast.  She  scolded  for 
a  while  and  finally  said : 

"There  is  no  choice — you  must  swallow  your  eggs 
or  die!" 

In  reply,  I  asked:  "Did  you  ever  hear  the  story 
of  your  namesake,  Angus  McDonnell?" 

"No! "rather  curtly. 

"Well,"  I  continued,  "Angus  went  one  day  to  see 
an  oculist  about  his  eyes.  After  a  thorough  exami- 
nation, the  doctor  said,  'McDonnell,  it's  like  this — 
you  either  have  to  stop  the  whiskey  or  lose  your  eye- 
sight, and  you  must  choose.' 

"  'Ah,  weel,  doctor,'  replied  the  old  Scotsman, 
'I'm  an  auld  mon  noo,  an'  I  was  thinkin'  I  hae  seen 
aboot  everything  worth  seein' !'  ' 

Her  hearty  laugh  rang  clear;  and,  perceiving  she 

[4] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

was  somewhat  mollified,  I  took  advantage  of  her 
good  humor  and  added : 

"Nurse,  don't  be  angry  with  me.  I  am  in  very 
much  the  same  frame  of  mind  as  our  friend  Angus, 
this  morning. ' ' 

However,  before  leaving  me  to  go  about  her  work, 
she  exacted  a  promise  that  I  would  do  all  in  my 
power  to  avoid  a  like  condition  in  the  future.  This 
I  readily  gave. 

So,  because  my  strength  at  present  does  not 
permit  me  to  pen  more  than  a  stray  thought  or  two 
at  a  time,  I  have  resolved  that  these  lines  shall  be 
more  in  the  nature  of  a  diary  than  of  a  letter — some- 
thing I  may  not  feel  obliged  to  finish,  but  may  pick 
up  or  east  aside  as  the  inclination  prompts  me. 

What  shall  we  call  this  opus  magnum,  Pal?  How 
do  you  like,  Reveries  of  a  Lunger?  I  am  afraid 
that  word,  lunger,  would  prove  my  undoing  were  I 
to  write  for  publication,  and  not  for  your  eyes  alone. 
In  our  modern  civilization  a  rather  rigid  rule  pre- 
vails of  shunning  not  only  one  infected  with  tuber- 
culosis, but  even  the  name  itself.  To  speak  of  this 
particular  disease — except  perhaps  in  medical  cir- 
cles— is  not  considered  good  form.  It  makes  one's 
hearers,  though  outwardly  they  smile  benignly  upon 
you  and  appear  tremendously  interested  in  your 
subject, — it  makes  them  shudder  at  heart.  Im- 
perceptibly they  straighten  up,  draw  a  deep  breath 
(a  sure  preventive  against  all  attack),  and,  inci- 
dentally, determine  to  change  the  conversation  at 
the  first  opportunity. 

[5] 


Then  again,  that  word  reveries  does  not  seem  to 
fit  either.  A  revery,  to  me,  always  connotes  two 
distinct  objects:  a  cheery,  open  fireplace,  with  blaz- 
ing logs  within ;  and  a  well-filled  pipe  as  companion 
of  the  idle  hours.  Both  of  these  comforts  are  denied 
me  under  present  conditions.  I  am  obliged  to  live 
out  of  doors,  and  forget  that  there  ever  existed  such 
a  potent  soother  of  one's  sorrows  as  the  fragrant 
weed.  Nevertheless — unless  you  fancy  another 
title — Keveries  of  a  Lunger  it  shall  be.  "Quod  scripsi, 
scripsi."  What  I  have  written  remains. 

As  ever, 

Ladd. 

P.  S.  Good  news !  Nurse  McDonnell  just  came  in  to 
say  that  John,  her  husband,  would  leave  to-morrow 
for  Chicago.  He  is  shipping  a  few  cars  of  sheep, 
and  will  accompany  them  to  their  destination,  re- 
turning in  about  three  weeks.  I  am  sending  these 
notes  with  him.  If  he  mails  them  on  his  arrival  in 
Havre,  I  may  have  a  reply  from  you  by  the  time  he 
returns  again  to  the  Bear  Paw.  Please  do  not  fail 
me. 

L. 

May  29,  1918. 

The  battle  rages,  Pal,  or  is  it  the  fever?  We  have 
turned  on  the  enemy,  and  are  holding  our  ground. 
Now  let  us  talk  of  something  more  cheerful;  for  I 
am  beginning  to  realize  that  I  have  been  very  selfish, 
that  I  and  my  woes  have  occupied  the  stage  entirely 
too  long. 

[6] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

Apropos  of  the  above,  I  recall  a  rather  pithy  say- 
ing from  one  of  Kipling's  sea  stories.  The  scene  is 
laid  on  board  a  merchantman  bound  for  England; 
and  the  author  pictures  quite  vividly  a  number  of 
rough,  old  tars  watching  the  antics  of  a  caged  mon- 
key. The  animal  keeps  up  a  continual  chatter,  and 
appears  bent  on  attracting  as  much  attention  as 
possible.  Finally  one  weather-beaten  sea-dog  takes 
the  pipe  from  his  mouth;  and  turning  to  his  com- 
panions, points  to  the  cage  and  sagely  remarks: 
"Too  much  of  the  Ego,  and  too  little  of  the  Cosmos!" 

That  sailor  was  somewhat  of  a  natural  philosopher 
— he  was  able  to  read  below  the  surface:  but  he 
forgot  to  add  that  it  was  because  the  animal  was  in 
captivity  that  he  was  self-centred.  In  all  probability, 
had  the  monkey  been  in  his  natural  surroundings, 
in  the  jungle,  he  would  have  been  thinking  of  some- 
thing other  than  himself.  It  was  confinement  that 
emphasized  the  Ego. 

Now,  it  seems  to  me  that,  for  many  years  past,  I 
have  been  in  very  much  the  same  position  as  that 
captive  animal.  Though  living  in  the  metropolis,  I 
have  been  as  closely  confined  by  unnatural  surround- 
ings, false  criteria  of  conduct,  as  the  monkey  by  his 
iron  cage.  As  a  matter  of  course,  then,  my  Ego 
has  become  abnormally  developed.  This  I  perceive 
in  the  few  lines  I  wrote  shortly  after  my  arrival 
here.  Nothing  but  I  and  me  recurring  every  little 
while.  Honestly,  were  it  not  for  our  mutual  promise, 
nothing  would  remain  but  torn-up,  scattered  scraps 
of  paper. 

[7] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

But  the  spirit  of  the  mountains,  the  spirit  of  the 
pines,  the  spirit  of  the  broad,  wind-swept  plains  in 
the  dim  distance, — these  are  hovering  about  me,  per- 
meating my  very  being,  fashioning  the  man  you 
knew  in  broader,  nobler  lines. 

One  cannot  long  remain  selfish  under  such  influ- 
ences, or  rather  under  such  influence,  for  the  lesson 
nature  teaches  is  ever  the  same — generosity.  "Give, 
and  it  shall  be  given  to  you."  These  are  the  words 
she  never  tires  of  dinning  into  our  untuned  ears. 

When  I  awoke  this  morning,  from  the  poplar  tree 
that  overshadows  my  veranda,  a  brave-hearted 
phoebe  favored  me  with  a  song;  while  the  breezes 
brought  me  a  gift  from  the  pine  trees  west  of  Sun- 
set Cottage,  and  oh,  thank  Heaven !  it  was  not  doled 
out  as  the  doctor's  prescription.  I  just  filled  and 
refilled  every  air  cell  in  my  lungs,  until  a  bright  ray 
of  light  coming  over  my  shoulder  distracted  me.  It 
was  the  old  sun.  Even  he  had  not  forgotten  "the 
pilgrim,"  but  was  bringing  his  substance  of  warmth 
and  good  cheer  to  lay  at  my  feet.  And  Beaver 
Creek  (a  madcap  stream  that  rushes  pellmell  down 
the  mountain  side,  not  over  fifty  yards  from  the 
house)  well,  he  hardly  waited  long  enough  to 
mumble  a  hurried  "Good  morning!"  so  eager  was 
he  to  reach  the  town  on  the  prairies  below,  and,  in- 
cidentally, to  assist  some  dry-land  farmers  he  would 
pass  on  the  way.  Who  was  it  wrote  the  following 
"To  a  Mountain  Stream"?  The  author  could  cer- 
tainly not  have  given  a  better  description  of  Beaver 
Creek. 

[8] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

"Oh,  he  tumbles  adown,  past  the  little  gray  town, 

And  sings  a  bright  song  on  the  way. 

On  meadows  and  woods,  he  gives  of  his  goods, 

Like  a  prodigal,  here  for  a  day. 

He  asks  no  returns  for  the  wages  he  earns, 

Yet  each  blade  on  the  soft,  dewy  lea, 

Begs  a  blessing  of  love  to  fall  from  above 

On  the  traveler  who  goes  to  the  sea. 

"Oh,  gay  little  stream !    I  have  caught  from  thy  gleam 

How  nobly  and  truly  to  live. 

I  must  journey  along  in  the  lilt  of  a  song, 

And  gladly  and  freely  to  give. 

Nor  ask  on  the  way  for  guerdon  or  pay, 

Save  the  blessings  men  shower  on  me, 

Till  I  hear  the  deep  lave  of  the  broad,  ocean  wave, 

And  the  River  at  last  meets  the  Sea," 

" Those  horrid  mountains!"  I  hear  you  say.  "They 
are  making  Laddie  more  and  more  egotistical.  He's 
as  bad  as  Mrs.  Poyser's  bantam  cock,  who  fancied 
the  sun  got  up  every  morning  to  hear  him  crow." 

No  indeed!  I'm  not  more  egotistical.  I'm  just 
awakening  to  the  spirit  of  generosity,  to  the  spirit 
of  giving  that  pervades  all  nature.  And,  Claire,  I 
am  becoming  more  trustful. 

"As  weak,  yet  as  trustful  as  ever 
For  the  whole  year  round  I  see 
All  the  wonders  of  faithful  nature 
Still  worked  for  the  love  of  me." 

I  do  hope  John  McDonnell  will  bring  me  a  letter 
from  you.  He  ought  to  return  within  a  few  days,  so 
Mrs.  McD.  tells  me.  Adios!  The  rebellious  feeling 
is  fast  disappearing. 

[9] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 
On  board  H.  M.  S.  Steamer  chair. 

June  10,  1918. 

A  rather  dramatic  incident  occurred  to  me  the 
day  I  arrived  in  Havre :  and,  as  far  as  I  recall,  I  have 
not  mentioned  it  to  you.  I  had  just  been  assisted 
down  the  Pullman  steps,  and  was  giving  directions 
to  the  porter  relative  to  the  disposal  of  my  baggage, 
when  a  grimy  individual  crept  out  from  underneath 
the  very  car  I  had  been  traveling  in.  For  the  frac- 
tion of  a  second  he  looked  stealthily  about,  as  if 
fearing  detection;  then  he  walked  rapidly  away. 
In  that  brief  space,  I  recognized  the  tramp, — it  was 
Jack  Carter,  valedictorian  of  our  class — the  fellow  I 
had  often  spoken  to  you  about,  who  came  from  be- 
hind and  ended  by  making  such  a  fine  record  in  my 
last  year.  The  porter  must  have  noticed  me  watch- 
ing the  stranger,  for  he  quickly  dropped  my  valises, 
and  started  in  pursuit  of  Jack.  Realizing  that  the 
negro  meant  to  have  our  friend  arrested,  I  decided 
upon  a  ruse.  As  the  colored  man  returned  with  his 
prisoner,  stepping  up  to  the  two,  I  extended  my  hand 
to  Jack  and  said  "Old  fellow,  what  would  your 
millionaire  father  say  if  he  knew  you  were  roaming 
around  the  country  like  a  tramp?  and  all  for  the 
sake  of  gathering  a  little  experience!" 

Claire,  dear,  I  cannot  just  decide  which  of  the 
two — Jack  or  the  porter — showed  the  most  astonish- 
ment. The  negro's  manner  immediately  changed; 
he  was  more  obsequious  to  Jack  than  to  me,  who  had 

[10] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

given  him  five  dollars  but  a  few  moments  before.  As 
to  Jack,  it  was  some  time  before  he  recognized  me 
on  account  of  my  altered  appearance;  at  last,  after 
a  long,  searching  look,  he  sought  my  hand  in  a  vice- 
like  grip  and  said : 

''How  d'ye!  Ladd,  how  d'ye!" 

The  simple  words  rang  true;  for  Jack  was  never 
more  in  need  of  a  friend  than  at  that  moment :  while 
I,  an  exile,  was  happy  too  in  meeting  one  from  the 
home  land — one,  who  understood. 

We  talked  far  into  the  night;  and  the  following 
morning,  just  before  parting  to  continue  my  journey 
into  the  Bear  Paw,  I  drew  him  aside,  and  slipped 
some  money  into  his  hand.  He  accepted  it  grate- 
fully, and  I,  somewhat  anxious  about  his  future, 
questioned : 

"Are  you  broke,  Jack?" 

"No!  Ladd,"  he  answered,  "I'm  not  broke,  but 
badly  bent."  These  were  his  last  words. 

To-day,  I  fear  Mrs.  McDonnell  fancies  I,  too,  am 
"badly  bent"  and  on  the  verge  of  being  broke;  for, 
though  allowing  me  to  sit  on  a  steamer-chair  on  the 
veranda,  she  has,  nevertheless,  wrapped  me  about 
like  one  of  those  Egyptian  mummies  that  are  often 
seen  in  museums. 

The  day  is  a  glorious  one,  Pal !  A  soft  mild  wind 
blows  from  the  West  —  a  chinook,  men  call  it  out 
here;  and  the  far-off  Rockies  are  dreaming  in  the 
afternoon  sun. 

Somehow  I  cannot  forget  that  parting  with  Jack. 
His  words  still  haunt  me  like  a  fever  dream.  "Not 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

broke,  but  badly  bent!" — that's  my  case.  Not  only 
physically  but  morally  I'm  "badly  bent." 

In  childhood,  I  remember  going  up  sometimes  to 
the  attic  on  an  exploring  trip.  On  one  particular 
day  I  was  successful  in  forcing  a  door  that  had  long 
resisted  my  efforts.  I  peeped  cautiously  in.  The 
shutters  were  drawn;  the  windows  all  closed;  a 
damp,  musty  odor  pervaded  the  whole  room.  There 
were  cob-webs  everywhere,  and  the  dust  of  years, 
like  a  gray  mantle,  covered  furniture  and  floor.  To 
conquer  my  fear,  I  opened  the  door  a  little  wider. 
It  creaked  on  its  hinges,  and  a  mouse  scuttled  across 
the  open  towards  an  old  bureau.  That  was  sufficient 
for  me;  I  quickly  withdrew. 

The  appearance  of  that  room  remains  indelibly 
imprinted  on  my  memory,  and,  in  a  way,  it  best 
describes  to  you  my  spiritual  condition  in  the  past. 

Since  coming  here,  however,  some  fairy  god- 
mother has  worked  a  miracle.  The  shutters  are 
thrown  back,  the  windows  are  wide  open,  and  God's 
bright  sunshine,  and  God's  pure  air  are  mine  once 
more.  And  strange  as  it  may  seem,  though  I  now 
see  the  dust,  the  cob-webs,  and  the  general  disorder, 
I  am  not  at  all  discouraged.  I'm  just  thankful  that 
I  do  see  things  as  they  really  are.  "When  the  time 
comes  for  house  cleaning,  He  will  be  on  hand  to  lend 
assistance.  At  present  I  am  content  to  leave  myself 
in  His  keeping, — content  to  imitate  Jack  Carter  and 
his  utter  lack  of  solicitude.  Like  the  birds  of  the  air, 
and  the  lilies  of  the  field,  he  neither  sows  nor  reaps, 

[12] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

yet  somehow  God  provided  for  him.  Poor  Jack! 
Poor  Jack!  . ... 

I've  been  asleep,  Pal.  The  afternoon  has 

glided  by,  the  shadows  are  lengthening,  and  Rory 
has  leaped  up  on  my  chair  to  tell  me  I  may  expect 
supper  soon.  He  generally  arrives  on  the  scene 
three  or  four  minutes  before  Nurse  McDonnell. 
Those  blessed  eggs!  I'm  beginning  to  hate  the  very 
sight  of  them.  Some  night  I'll  wake  up  and  begin 
to  crow.  What  an  ungrateful  wretch  I  am!  Mrs. 
McD.  says  I  owe  a  huge  debt  to  her  hens  already. 
Perhaps  that  is  the  very  reason  I  have  taken  an 
aversion  to  them.  One  does  not  exactly  love  and 
cultivate  the  friendship  of  Shylock,  especially  if  he 
has  your  name  on  the  books  for  a  few  hundred 
dollars.  On  the  contrary,  I  was  accustomed  to  avoid 
such  an  individual,  and  was  not  a  bit  sorry  when 
some  of  my  less  fortunate  friends  left  New  York  for 
other  parts  with  their  debts  to  Shylock  unpaid.  I 
was  like  the  man  who  was  asked  by  his  minister  if 
he  forgave  his  enemies. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "I  can  not  say  that  I  exactly 
forgive  them,  but  I  do  my  best  to  put  them  in  a 
position  where  I  can  sympathize  with  them!" 

What  childish  talk,  Laddie!  Why  not,  Claire? 
It's  the  evening  hour,  the  children's  hour. 

"Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 
Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 

[13] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

Nurse  is  coming, — the  writing  tablet  must  dis- 
appear. Good  night,  Claire ! 

P.  S.  Before  leaving  me  to  my  supper,  Mrs. 
McDonnell  pointed  to  two  lonely  horsemen  traveling 
across  the  prairie  towards  the  mountains.  Nurse 
thinks  they  are  her  "unco  guid"  husband,  and 
Charlie  (the  second  in  command  up  here),  returning 
from  their  trip  to  Chicago.  I  may  have  a  letter  from 
you  to-night,  Claire!  I'm  going  to  pretend  to  sleep, 
but  just  as  soon  as  I  hear  the  "guid  mon,"  John, 
creeping  back  to  his  Lar,  I  shall  begin  to  cough,  and 
he,  in  his  goodness  of  heart,  will  come  out  and  see  if 
I  wish  anything.  I  shall  then  —  incidentally  of 
course  —  ask  if  there  be  any  mail  for  me.  Wish  I 
had  a  cigar  to  help  me  pass  the  time  until  his  arrival ; 
yet  what's  the  use  of  wishing,  like  the  Carthaginian 
general,  I've  burnt  all  my  ships  behind  me.  No! 
That's  a  lie,  Pal.  I  did  not  burn  them  —  the  cigars, 
I  mean  —  I  just  simply  stowed  them  away  in  the 
cupboard,  when  the  doctor  denied  me.  They  will  be 
all  dried  up.  Well,  Mashallah  !  what's  the  difference? 
I  try  to  be  stoical,  but  oftentimes  I  fail  miserably. 
For  instance,  to-night  I  am  far  from  being  indifferent 
as  to  receiving  or  not  receiving  a  letter  from  you. 

This  postscript  will  soon  be  longer  than  the  letter 
itself,  if  I  do  not  stop  at  once. 


[14] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

62  Madison  Avenue, 

New  York, 
12:21  AM. 
Ladd,  dear, 

I've  just  come  in;  and,  after  all  these  centuries, 
find  your  blessed  bundle  of  letters.  It's  just  like  a 
chat  with  you,  and  somehow  I  can't  realize  that  you 
really  are  away  off  in  those  mountains  with  the  queer 
name.  You  almost  make  me  see  the  sheep  ranch 
and  its  owner,  and  already  I  love  the  nurse  who 
takes  such  good  care  of  you.  Tell  me  next  time  all 
about  her,  what  she  says  and  does,  even  what  she 
feeds  you,  and  also  how  often  she  scolds. 

There  were  tears  in  my  eyes,  when  I  read  —  and 
then  read  again  —  the  part  where  you  said  you  need 
me.  Little  useless  me !  Why,  Ladd,  you  do  not  need 
any  one  to  help  you  to  be  strong  and  brave.  Don't 
you  suppose  I  know  "it  takes  more  courage  to 
sheathe  the  sword  when  one  is  all  on  fire  for  action 
than  to  go  forth  against  the  greatest  foe,"  as  the 
jester  said  in  the  little  tale  you  used  to  like?  No, 
you  don't  need  me,  but  it  is  good  to  be  told  that 
you  do. 

At  the  play  to-night,  I  tried  to  watch  and  listen, 
but  the  scenery  would  keep  fading  away  and  letting 
me  see  a  thousand  ( ?)  miles  beyond,  to  where  there 
were  some  mountains  with  pines.  Then  I  was  no 

[is] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

longer  in  the  theatre,  but  out  there  on  the  veranda 
in  the  moonlight  with  you.  You  were  laughing  at 
what  you  termed  my  mock  sentimentality  as  I  quoted 
our  old  friend,  Omar : 

"Yon  rising  moon  who  looks  for  us  again, 
How  oft  hereafter  will  she  wax  and  wane; 
How  oft  hereafter  rising  look  for  us 
Through  this  same  Garden — and  for  one  in  vain !" 

The  curtain  went  down,  and  I  was  back  on  your 
beloved  Great  "White  Way.  We  never  thought  in  the 
old  days  that  my  favorite  quotation  was  a  prophesy, 
Did  we? 

But  where  is  your  "cheerful"  little  Pal?  Dear 
me !  you  will  need  a  tonic  to  counteract  the  effects 
of  this  if  I  don't  stop.  Perhaps  to-morrow  —  no,  it's 
to-day  —  when  the  sun  is  shining,  I  may  do  better. 

It  may  be  this  gloom  is  inspired  by  the  fact  that 
on  our  way  home  we  stopped  at  that  funny  little 
cafe,  where  the  orchestra  always  played  the  things 
I  like, — Remember?  I  forgot  to  tell  you  we  were 
just  the  old  crowd  with  mother  chaperoning.  When 
they  played  the  Kreutzer  Sonata,  I  dropped  my 
glass.  I  couldn't  help  it;  to-night  more  than  usual 
everything  reminded  me  of  you. 

We  aren  't  going  to  give  up  hoping,  Ladd,  you  and 
I.  But  when  I  think  of  you,  who  have  everything  to 
live  for,  —  you  whom  the  world  needs,  preparing  to 
give  it  all  up,  how  I  hate  my  own  perfect  strength ! 
How  I  wish  I  might  change  places  with  you!  Oh, 
Laddie,  Laddie!  What  a  topsy-turvy  world  this  is! 

[16] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

10  A.  M. 

Good  morning,  Ladd ! 

The  sun  is  shining,  and  all  last  night's  gloom  has 
melted  beneath  his  dazzling  smile;  so  I  want  to  ask 
you  about  those  pines.  I  remember  being  in  some 
pine  woods  long  ago,  and  I  shall  never,  never  for- 
get what  the  odor  was  like  after  a  rain,  nor  the 
wonderful  things  the  pines  whispered  about.  What 
do  they  say  to  you?  Do  they  tell  you  they  are  glad 
you  are  up  there  with  them  above  the  trivialities  of 
the  busy,  thoughtless  world;  and  do  they  ever  tell 
you  that,  if  you  will  only  bend  as  willingly  as  they 
to  the  storms  heaven  sends,  you  will  not  be  hurt  by 
their  violence?  They  must  have  done  that,  because 
in  your  later  messages  I  glimpse  something  that 
means  more,  much  more  than  a  passive  resignation. 
Rather  it 's  like  a  calm  after  a  tempest. 

Have  you  been  out  in  a  storm  yet?  A  real  one 
with  the  wind  all  about  you,  and  you  were  alone 
and  it  was  dark;  but  you  didn't  care,  because  the 
pines  lent  you  some  of  their  strength,  and  you  lifted 
your  face  to  them  and  loved  them.  Then  the  storm 
died  away,  and  the  sun  was  shining  again.  Some- 
where a  bird  sang.  After  awhile,  it  was  sunset  —  the 
loveliest  sunset,  all  purple  and  gold  —  and  —  and 
then  quite  suddenly  you  realized  that  you  were 
hungry.  For,  after  all,  it  is  a  prosaic  world,  and  one 
cannot  always  stay  on  the  mountain  top.  So  you 
hurried  down  to  find  out  if  there  were  muffins  for 
tea  —  that  nice  fluffy  kind  —  and  strawberries  with 
cream.  Oh,  now  you  are  laughing ! 

t'7] 


I  almost  forgot  to  tell  you  how  my  heart  sank 
when  I  read  about  your  mail  arriving  and  departing 
only  once  in  six  weeks,  but  perhaps  after  all  it  will 
not  be  such  an  endless  interval, — thanks  to  your  idea 
of  the  Reveries.  How  like  you  to  think  of  them! 
Nothing  could  so  nearly  make  up  for  having  to  get 
on  without  you  as  this  sharing  your  thoughts  in  the 
old  way.  So  you  will  write  me  what  you  are  think- 
ing, and  I  shall  write  back ;  and,  somehow,  the  time 
will  pass.  But  please,  you  are  never  to  write  when 
you  don't  feel  quite  like  it. 

Yours  with  the  most  loving  of  good  wishes, 

Claire. 

At  Home,  5  P.  M. 
My  dear  Ladd, 

It  is  raining  this  afternoon,  so  I'm  going  to  invite 
you  to  sit  in  the  huge  armchair  just  across  the  fire- 
place from  me,  while  I  make  tea  and  talk  to  you.  I 
do  hope  you  will  notice  that  I  am  wearing  that  little 
gray  gown  and  the  big  yellow  rose.  You  used  to  like 
that  particular  gown,  —  I  remember  noticing. 

Presently  I  should  be  saying,  "One  lump  or  two?" 
if  I  did  not  know  you  always  take  three.  Just  a 
moment  —  I  'm  going  to  toss  this  crimson  cushion  to 
tuck  behind  your  head.  Ready?  Catch!  Now  isn't 
that  cosy? 

What  shall  we  talk  about?  Let  me  see,  —  I've 
been  reading  your  letters  again.  I've  read  holes  in 
some  of  them;  and  more  than  ever  they  impress  me 
with  the  courageous  way  you  are  giving  up  your 

[18] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

plans  for  the  immediate  future,  and  facing  the  un- 
certainty of  taking  up  your  work  again.  It  has 
meant  a  fight,  of  course,  but  you've  won;  and  I  really 
think  you  might  say  with  Stevenson's  Alan  Breck 
Stewart,  ' '  Am  I  no '  a  bonny  fighter  ? ' '  For  after  all, 
Ladd,  what  is  more  worth  fighting  for  than  just  the 
strength  to  accept  things  as  they  are  —  and  smile? 

You  and  I  learned  long  ago  to  trust  the  Eternal 
Wisdom  which  maps  out  our  little  destinies,  so  we 
need  make  no  question  now.  Some  one,  I  forget  who, 
said  that,  when  we  come  to  summing  up  the  actual 
values  of  life  and  counting  the  things  that  have 
molded  our  characters,  we  shall  count  those  things 
which  at  the  time  of  their  happening  seemed  like 
great  losses.  So  perhaps  one  day  we  too  shall  see 
that  God's  benediction  rested  upon  our  disappoint- 
ments. In  the  meantime,  like  you,  I  shall  try  to  be 
busy  and  brave  and  gay. 

Recently,  I've  been  having  some  interesting  and 
inspiring  letters  from  the  boys  we  know  in  France. 
Forgive  me  for  recalling  your  own  blighted  hopes  at 
being  unable  to  do  your  part  with  these  volunteers; 
but  I've  been  thinking  that  you  have  been  called  to 
a  broader  battle-field  than  theirs,  on  which  there  is 
the  inestimable  service  of  those  who  must  "stand 
and  wait."  If  it  has  been  your  fortune  to  be  chosen 
for  this  special  service,  why  then  salute  your  Com- 
mander; and,  again,  —  smile! 

As  for  heroism,  we  cannot  say  exactly  in  what  it 
consists;  I  suppose  because  it  is  always  relative. 
Even  if  these  boys  of  ours  do  not  return,  will  they 

[19] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

not  have  escaped  long,  dreary  years  of  struggle,  and 
come  all  the  sooner  to  the  final  triumph  of  the  death- 
less soul  ?  In  any  event,  you  are  not  going  to  grieve 
if  the  Commander's  orders  seem  hard  to  obey,  nor 
waste  time  in  mourning  over  the  demolition  of  your 
air-castles.  At  best  a  lifetime  is  very  brief,  and  we 
shall  not  be  like  him  "who  never  sees  the  stars  shine 
through  his  cypress  trees";  for  we  are  sure  that 

"Love  will  dream,  and  Faith  will  trust 
(Since  He  Who  knows  our  need  is  just), 
That  somehow,  somewhere,  meet  we  must." 

Have  I  been  too  serious?  Why,  Laddie,  I  believe 
you're  asleep!  Then  I  have  tired  you.  Well,  never 
mind,  I'll  try  to  slip  out  without  waking  you. 
Please  don't  open  your  eyes,  I  want  to  look  at  you. 
It  is  strange,  but  you  don't  look  ill,  dear.  Except 
for  the  tired  lines,  you  are  such  a  model  of  health 
and  energy  that  I  can't,  I  won't  believe  you  are 
not  going  to  be  well  again,  soon. 

My  love  to  the  Bear  Paw,  and  everything  that 
belongs  to  them,  from  the  dear  good  nurse  down  to 
the  tiniest  sheep. 

Your  ever  and  ever  devoted  little  Pal, 

Claire. 


[20] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

Sunset  Cottage, 
June  11, 1918. 

Dear  Claire : — 

Everything  went  off  as  per  schedule.  When  John 
McDonnell  arrived  home  in  the  wee  hours  of  the 
morning,  I  heard  his  rough,  but  gentle  steps  inside 
the  house ;  and,  immediately,  I  proceeded  to  develop 
a  violent  fit  of  coughing.  I  had  not  mistaken  his 
kindness  of  heart ;  for,  as  I  surmised,  he  came  out  to 
inquire  if  I  desired  a  fresh  glass  of  water  from 
Beaver  Creek;  and  —  God  bless  him!  —  fumbled  in 
his  pocket  and  handed  me  your  letters.  By  the  first 
gray  streaks  of  dawn  I  read  and  reread  them ;  then, 
the  suspense  over,  a  reaction  set  in,  and  I  slept  like 
a  little  child  until  the  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens, 
until  (to  be  exact)  eleven  A.  M. 

Nurse  McDonnell  is  wise  —  wondrously  wise,  Pal. 
She  said  that  John  and  I  needed  a  long  sleep,  and 
did  not  wake  us  up  even  for  breakfast.  It  seems  to 
me  she  has  an  uncanny  way  of  knowing  one's  mental 
and  physical  condition,  a  power  of  delving  into  the 
soul ;  or  is  it  only  her  innate  goodness,  her  watchful- 
ness and  considerateness  of  the  wants  and  the  feel- 
ings of  others,  —  that  infallible  mark  of  the  true 
gentleman  or  gentlewoman  ? 

[21] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

June  13,  1918. 

Claire,  do  you  remember  that  rather  pathetic 
soliloquy  of  Billy  Heffernan  in  the  charming  novel 
of  Irish  life,  Knocknagow,  or  the  Homes  of  Tippe- 
rary?  Heffernan  was  in  love  with  a  young  colleen, 
and  one  night,  after  taking  her  to  a  dance,  was 
obliged  to  leave  her  in  order  to  gather  his  creel  of 
turf  and  have  it  in  the  town  of  Clonmel  by  early 
morning.  Before  parting  his  sweetheart  remarked 
that  it  must  be  lonesome  all  alone  out  there  in  the 
bog,  to  which  Billy  readily  assented. 

"  Wisha,  begor !  'tis  thrue  for  her,"  he  soliloquized, 
as  he  plodded  up  the  hill.  "  'Tis  lonesome  enough. 
The  road  is  lonesome,  and  the  house  is  lonesome,  an' 
the  bog  is  lonesome,  an'  begor,  the  main  street  of 
Clonmel  is  the  lonesomest  in  all.  No  matter  where  I 
am,  I'm  lonesome,  so  that  I  believe  it  isn't  the  road, 
or  the  house,  or  the  bog,  or  the  town,  but  the  heart 
that's  lonesome,  and  whin  the  heart's  lonesome,  the 
world  is  lonesome." 

Since  the  advent  of  your  letters,  I  have  been  living 
more  than  ever  in  the  past,  thinking  of  the  friends 
and  scenes  of  former  days.  This  afternoon,  however, 
for  the  first  time  I  began  analyzing  this  feeling  of 
loss,  of  lonesomeness.  In  the  beginning  when  I  first 
came  to  the  Bear  Paw,  I  fancied  I  could  never  live 
away  from  that  mad,  reckless  coterie  of  college  men 
with  whom  I  was  accustomed  to  associate  while  in 
the  City.  In  our  wild  moments  we  were  pleasure 
seekers.  Like  Omar  we  cried : 

[22] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

"Come,  fill  the  Cup,  and  in  the  fire  of  Spring 
Your  Winter  garment  of  Repentance  fling: 
The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter — and  the  Bird  is  on  the  Wing." 

Now  things  are  changed.  There  is  a  world  of 
capability  for  joy  spread  about  me  up  here  in  nature. 
As  yet,  I  can  tell  you  little ;  I  am  a  novice,  and  am 
just  beginning  to  delve  into  this  inexhaustible  mine, 
but  already  I  realize  that  the  balance  is  not  always 
on  the  side  of  sin  —  that  illicit  joys  are  not  the  only 
ones  on  earth  —  that  there  are  others  which  somehow 
do  not  leave  a  bad  taste  in  the  mouth,  and  remorse  in 
the  heart.  So,  Pal,  it  is  not  this  I  crave. 

Nor  do  I  miss  that  semblance  of  intellectual  pur- 
suit, which  our  clique  assumed  in  their  saner  periods. 
I,  as  the  acknowledged  leader  of  these  dilettanti,  was 
considered  clever,  and  a  young  man  of  "great  ex- 
pectations." And  why,  Claire?  Because,  forsooth, 
I  had  greater  temerity  than  the  rest,  and  would 
advance  a  startling  theory  irrespective  of  whether 
it  were  false  or  true.  There  is  a  common  instrument 
of  destruction  in  daily  use  on  the  battle  fields  of 
France  —  cannon  ball.  I  perceive  now  that  for  years 
I  have  been  firing  similar  black  devils  of  destruction 
into  hearts  that  looked  up  to  me  for  guidance.  And 
I  even  mistook  for  success  and  fame  the  noise  caused 
by  the  discharge  of  those  theories.  Not  so  clever  as 
I  imagined !  Eh,  Claire  ? 

How  well  I  recall  your  earnestness  in  fighting  this 
intellectual  vandalism ;  and  how  ill  repaid  you  were, 
Pal,  for  all  your  trouble !  One  evening  in  particular 

[23] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

— it  was  a  week-end  party  at  Kestler's  on  Long 
Island  —  I  remember  being  especially  bitter  in  con- 
demning your  position.  Your  cool  way  of  seeing 
beneath  appearances,  of  tearing  away  the  veneer, 
rather  irritated  me  that  night,  and  I  retorted  to  one 
of  your  remarks  that,  because  of  your  religious 
views,  you  were  not  allowed  to  think  for  yourself. 
I  regretted  my  assertion  almost  instantaneously, — it 
was  so  unwarranted,  and,  coming  from  me,  cut 
doubly  deep.  You  flushed  with  anger,  then  bit  your 
lips  to  stem  the  torrent  of  words  that  was  swelling  up 
from  your  heart,  and  finally,  after  a  long  pause,  you 
replied  in  a  voice  ominously  calm : 

"Ladd,  were  it  not  for  the  old  Church  neither  you 
nor  I  would  be  able  to  think  at  all  —  to  her  we  owe 
everything  we  have  intellectually.  And  —  and 
Ladd,  she  is  your  Mother  too ;  for  you  were  baptized 
in  her  bosom." 

Then  you  left  me. 

It  took  a  long  time  to  heal  the  wound  I  inflicted 
that  summer  evening.  But  to  know  that  I  now  con- 
fess to  have  been  entirely  in  the  wrong  may  oblit- 
erate everything,  even  the  scar  itself.  It  has  been 
given  me  to  see  that,  just  as  liberty  of  speech  and 
license  in  the  use  of  words  are  not  synonymous,  so 
also  there  is  a  marked  difference  between  liberty  of 
thought  and  license  in  thought.  We  have  no  more 
right  to  think  falsely  than  to  speak  falsely.  The 
old  Church  in  prohibiting  her  children  from  delving 
into  dangerous  books  acts  wisely,  as  she  is  thus  pre- 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

venting  them  from  thinking  wrongly,  and,  as  a  con- 
sequence, from  speaking  falsely. 

I  begin  now  to  tread  on  rather  thin  ice.  Not  only 
my  quondam  coterie  and  their  foibles  do  not  appeal 
to  me,  but  even  you,  Claire,  I  view  from  a  different 
coigne  of  vantage.  Please  do  not  misunderstand  me. 
Letters  are  such  inadequate  substitutes  for  the 
spoken  word  that  a  misconstruing  of  my  meaning 
might  result  in  a  severance  of  that  ideal  friendship 
which  has  always  existed  between  us.  Let  me  en- 
deavor  to  explain. 

In  the  olden  days  I  regarded  you  not  so  much  as  a 
creature  like  myself,  but  as  one  far  off  —  apart  from 
the  rest  —  one  who,  for  me  constituted  the  end  of 
things.  I  never  saw  beyond  your  blessed  self.  You 
were  like  a  beacon  on  the  highest  mountain  top; 
only,  unlike  little  Paul  Dombey,  I  never  asked  any 
questions  about  what  was  on  the  other  side  of  the 
horizon  —  my  undivided  attention  was  centered  on 
the  beacon  itself.  Now  you  are  changed  —  no,  not 
you,  but  my  view  point  of  you  has  undergone  a 
subtle  transformation.  You  are  no  longer  an  end  in 
yourself — a  being  to  be  met  only  when  the  journey  is 
over  —  a  will-o'-the-wisp;  you  are  now  a  means  to 
the  end,  —  a  real,  live,  human  companion, — one  who 
will  travel  with  me  "adown  life's  hill  together," 
sharing  the  burdens  of  the  day  and  its  heats; — one 
to  solace  though  not  entirely  to  fill  the  human  heart. 

So,  since  former  associates  —  since  not  even 
precious  Claire  is  destined  to  satisfy  entirely  that 
restless  longing,  what  must  my  conclusion  be  ?  With 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

our  mutual  friend  in  the  quaint  story  of  Irish  life,  I 
must  finally  admit  that  it  must  be  "the  heart  that's 
lonely,"  the  human  heart  craving  for  something  to 
satisfy  it  to  the  full.  Do  you  remember  those  ex- 
quisite lines  in  Charles  Phillip's  poem,  "Music"? 

"There  is  a  hunger  in  my  heart  to-night, 

A  longing  in  my  soul,  to  hear 

The  voice  of  heaven  o'er  the  noise  of  earth 

That  doth  assail  my  ear: 

For  we  are  exiled  children  of  the  skies, 

Lone  and  lost  wanderers  from  home. 

The  stars  come  out  like  lamps  in  windows  lit 

Far  from  where  we  roam; 

Like  candles  lit  to  show  the  long  late  way, 

Dear  kindly  beacons  sure  and  bright; 

But  O,  the  heavy  journeying,  and  0 

The  silence  of  the  night !" 

The  sun  is  slowly  setting  in  the  west,  Pal,  making 
the  gaunt  trees  to  stand  out  clear  and  distinct  on 
the  far-off  horizon.  Somehow,  Claire,  I  cannot  get 
away  from  the  presentiment  that  my  life  too  is  slowly 
setting.  Things  that  before  were  muddled  and  con- 
fused now  appear  in  a  clearer,  truer  light.  Would 
it  not  be  the  irony  of  fate  if  this  self-constituted 
iconoclast  bent  his  knees  before  an  image  —  the 
image  of  God  I  see  mirrored  in  the  works  of  His 
hand  —  nature  ? 

Should  this  happen,  I  know  one  rather  lovable  in- 
dividual, who,  nevertheless,  would  not  refrain  from 
saying:  "I  told  you  so!" 

[26] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

Can  you,  by  any  possible  manner  of  means,  guess 
who  this  person  is? 

Back  to  earth  again  —  supper.    No,  I  made  a  mis- 
take, milk  and  eggs. 

Good  night ! 

Sunset  Cottage, 
June  17,  1918. 
Dear  Claire, 

It's  rather  difficult  to  compress  into  one  short 
letter  all  the  happenings  of  to-day.  Don't  laugh, 
please!  Oh,  it's  useless!  You  are  already  smiling 
good  humoredly  on  being  told  that  remarkable  inci- 
dents occur  in  the  Bear  Paw.  What!  an  unusual 
event  take  place  on  a  large  sheep  ranch,  forty  miles 
from  the  frontiers  of  civilization — impossible!  Did 
one  of  John's  lambkins  die?  Guess  again.  Did 
Rory  fall  into  Beaver  Creek  ?  Stop  kidding  the  gold- 
fish. No,  indeed!  cats  are  entirely  too  cautious  and 
too  correct  in  their  deportment  to  commit  any  such 
flagrant  violation  of  social  conventionalities  as  fall- 
ing into  a  stream.  They  are  careful  of  appearances ; 
even  in  their  wildest  moments  of  intense  excitement 
— when  stalking  a  bird,  for  instance  —  cats  never 
lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  they  are  cats,  everything 
is  done  according  to  set  rules  and  with  an  eye  to 
elegance  and  grace  of  action. 

For  the  above  reason  I  do  not  believe  that  the 
tabby  Gray  laments  about,  was  ever  so  indiscreet  as 
to  allow  her  desire  for  goldfish  to  get  the  better  of 
her  judgment.  If  that  particular  cat  actually  fell 

[27] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

into  a  bowl,  there  is  but  one  explanation — a  dog  was 
after  its  precious  scalp.  That's  the  only  time  a  cat 
becomes  confused  and  may  be  depended  upon  to 
act  foolishly.  Are  you  now  thoroughly  satisfied  that 
Rory  is  not  the  cause  and  the  subject  of  these  lines? 

All  levity  aside,  Claire,  nothing  occurred  here  to- 
day externally  worthy  of  record.  The  incidents  I 
refer  to  were  mostly  internal — psychological. 

When  I  awoke  this  morning,  it  had  been  raining 
for  some  time.  It  was  a  steady  cold  downpour  that 
chilled  the  bones  and  warped  one's  outlook  on  life, 
obliterating  from  the  memory  everything  of  a 
pleasant  nature.  After  breakfast,  (much  against  my 
inclination,  and  wearing,  in  all  probability,  the 
countenance  of  a  martyr)  I  began  to  perform  out- 
post duty  from  the  front  veranda,  or,  as  Nurse  would 
phrase  it,  "to  take  the  cure." 

It  was  too  cold  to  write;  and —  (I'll  blame  this  on 
the  condition  of  the  weather  too,  though  it's  de- 
fenceless)—  my  imagination  refused  to  work.  I 
tried  oh  so  hard,  to  convince  myself  of  the  many 
advantages  I  enjoyed  at  Sunset,  —  climatical  advan- 
tages, physical  advantages,  and  social  advantages. 
But  it  was  of  no  avail.  Like  the  light-hearted  fellow 
who  sat  at  his  desk  in  a  cold  room,  and  who  by  plac- 
ing an  oil-painting  of  a  glowing  fire-place  before  his 
gaze  endeavored  to  persuade  himself  that  he  felt 
tolerably  warm,  I,  too,  found  that  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  working  the  imagination  overtime;  then,  when  it 
is  necessary  for  it  to  function  normally,  it  refuses  to 
operate  at  all.  For,  when  I  came  to  ponder  my  social 

[28] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

advantages  —  that  was  the  last  reason  for  content- 
ment I  had  set  myself  to  consider  —  my  imagination 
refused  to  respond. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  I  was  obliged  to  eliminate 
John  and  Mrs.  McDonnell :  they  had  their  work  to 
occupy  them  and  one  could  not  expect  that  they 
leave  it  and  entertain  me.  Who  was  left,  Claire? 
(Recollect  the  chillness  of  the  weather  conditions 
and  the  lethargy  of  my  imagination) !  Simply  Rory ! 
And,  hang  it  all  (though  Jerome  K.  Jerome  spent 
five  or  six  valuable  pages  in  describing  the  good 
qualities  of  cats;  —  how  trustful  they  are,  never 
failing  you  in  time  of  need;  how  discreet,  never 
repeating  any  gossip  you  may  chance  to  let  slip  in 
their  hearing ;  how  forgiving,  never  holding  a  harsh 
word  against  a  fellow;  and  dozens  of  other  perfec- 
tions I  will  not  tire  you  by  repeating),  —  hang  it  all, 
cats  is  cats.  I,  at  least,  desire  another  species  of 
confidant.  To-day,  with  each  pitter-patter  of  rain 
on  the  roof  above  me,  this  utter  lack  of  human  com- 
panionship was  borne  in  upon  me  with  renewed 
force.  My  social  advantages  were  nil  —  absolutely 
nil. 

Suddenly  the  door  of  the  house  opened  and  Nurse 
approached.  There  must  have  been  something 
utterly  forlorn  in  my  appearance,  for  her  sympathy 
was  quickly  aroused.  Nevertheless,  though  her  eyes 
glistened  suspiciously,  no  newly  commissioned  officer 
was  ever  more  stern  in  commanding  me  to  go  in- 
doors, and  no  command  was  ever  more  welcome  than 
the  one  she  imposed  on  me. 

[29] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

I  have  never  described  to  you  the  cosy,  little  home 
the  McDonnells  have  erected  here :  nor  shall  I  do  so 
now,  except  to  say  that  it  is  thoroughly  modern,  and 
was  planned  and  built  entirely  by  John  himself. 
The  design  of  the  fireplace  in  the  living-room  is  quite 
original,  and,  though  chaste  and  plain  in  the  ex- 
treme, accords  well  with  the  unpretentious  sur- 
roundings of  the  room  itself.  To-day  the  bright 
warm  glow  from  the  burning  logs  permeated  the 
entire  room,  contrasting  favorably  with  the  cold 
bleak  day  without.  A  large  comfortable  Morris 
chair  (another  proof  of  John's  fabrile  skill)  stood 
close  by  the  "fireplace,  waiting  to  welcome  me  to  its 
bosom.  Nurse  McD.,  after  bringing  in  my  blanket, 
closed  the  door  and  remarked : 

' '  This  is  your  first  vacation  day  —  make  the  most 
of  it,  Mr.  — Mr.  Ladd!" 

Then  (would  you  believe  it?)  she  went  to  the 
mantel-piece  and  brought  forth  a  little  red  box  of 
Pall  Mall  cigarettes,  king's  size,  and  presented  them 
to  me.  It  seems  that  John,  on  his  last  trip  to 
Chicago,  was  solemnly  warned  not  to  return  home 
without  this  precious  cargo,  as  Nurse  just  knew  I 
enjoyed  smoking,  and  had  foreseen  this  occasion. 

How  little  it  takes  to  make  the  human  heart  sing, 
Claire !  A  few  moments  in  front  of  that  cheery  fire- 
place banished  all  dour  thoughts  and  forebodings. 
Almost  unconsciously  those  lines  of  Tibullus,  —  so 
appropriate  to  the  occasion — began  running  through 
my  mind : — 

[30] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIEE 

"Quam  juvat  immites  ventos  audire  cubantem 
Aequore  ab  indomito  dum  sibi  nauta  timet, 

Aut  gelidas  hibernas  aquas  cum  fuderit  Auster    . 
Securum  somnos  imbre  juvante  sequi." 

It  was  the  nurse  who  interrupted  my  reverie. 
With  eyes  closed,  I  was  listening  to  the  rain  beating 
against  the  window,  and,  at  the  same  time,  was  en- 
deavoring to  recall  Tibullus'  picture  of  the  old 
sailor  battling  on  just  such  a  day  as  this  with  moun- 
tainous waves  on  the  briny  deep.  Vividly  I  saw  it 
all.  The  sinking  ship,  the  rough  old  sea-dog  a  short 
distance  off  clinging  to  a  broken  spar,  dark  night 
descending  with  the  rain  over  the  whole  ghastly 
scene,  —  when  I  heard  my  name  called  in  a  faint, 
far-away  tone. 

"Ladd!  are  you  really  beginning  to  sleep?" 

Of  course  I  immediately  began  to  look  indignant. 
The  very  idea  —  me  sleeping!  However,  before  I 
could  frame  an  absolute  denial  (or  alibi  —  I  don't 
recall  which)  to  her  question,  she  interrupted  me 
with: 

"Listen,  Ladd,  I  have  great  news  to  tell  you. 
John  and  I  are  going  to  adopt  a  youngster  from 
Helena.  Last  fall,  when  hubby  was  in  that  city  on 
business,  he  paid  a  visit  to  the  orphanage  to  see  a 
neighbour's  child.  Since  then  the  idea  of  our  caring 
for  one  of  those  tots  has  steadily  grown  upon  John. 
The  lad  he  chose  is  an  unusually  bright  boy  of  about 
nine  years  of  age.  Physically,  however,  he  has  one 
defect  —  a  withered  leg,  the  effect  of  a  severe  attack 
of  infantile  paralysis  contracted  some  four  or  five 

[31] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

years  previous.  The  superintendent  confided  to 
John  that  the  child  would  have  been  accepted  long 
ago  into  a  good  home  were  it  not  for  this  deformity. 
Still  the  youngster's  gentle  manners,  his  whole- 
hearted trust  in  all  those  he  came  in  contact  with, 
and  especially  his  old-fashioned  ways  —  these  won 
John's  heart.  'That's  the  boy  for  me,'  he  said. 

"Naturally  the  superintendent  was  pleased  too; 
his  eyes  beamed  —  Albert  was  to  have  a  home  at 
last." 

"John  has  pestered  the  life  out  of  me  ever  since 
that  trip.  Whenever  we  are  alone,  he  begins  to  speak 
of  Albert  and  questions  me  as  to  when  we  should 
bring  him  to  Sunset.  "Would  you  believe  it?  —  on 
his  way  back  from  Chicago,  he  went  to  Helena,  then 
back  again  to  Havre  just  for  the  privilege  of  a  few 
hours  interview  with  King  Albert.  To-morrow  he 
makes  the  final  trip  to  bring  the  youngster  home 
with  him. 

"So,  Ladd,"  -this  with  a  mock  sigh  of  resigna- 
tion—  "Ladd,  prepare  your  soul  for  tribulation. 
Solitude  is  a  thing  of  the  past." 

Entre  nous,  Claire,  Mrs.  McDonnel  is  camouflaging. 
Despite  appearances,  I  am  convinced  she  is  the  arch 
instigator  —  she  is  even  more  anxious  than  her  guid 
mon  for  the  arrival  of  Albert. 

Ah,  those  women !  How  much  guile  there  is  even 
in  the  best  of  them ! 

"Ladd,  you  are  making  fun  of  me!  That  cigar- 
ette smoke  cannot  hide  the  twinkle  in  your  eyes. 

[32] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

You  are  engaged  in  the  delightful  pastime  of  reading 
my  thoughts!" 

And  she  pointed  an  accusing  finger  at  me. 

""Well,  I  must  go,  —  I  have  neglected  my  dinner." 

A  moment  later  I  was  alone  by  the  fireside,  listen- 
ing to  the  crackling  of  the  logs  and  the  pitter-patter 
of  the  rain  outside. 

It  is  with  a  grateful  heart  that  I  pen  these  lines. 
Grateful  that  in  my  forced  journey  from  Jerusalem 
to  Jericho  I,  too,  have  met  some  good  Samaritans — 
people,  who  not  only  took  me  into  their  homes  hut  into 
their  hearts  also,  gently  binding  up  my  wounds  and 
pouring  therein  oil  and  wine.  And  I  trust  Claire 
that  these  remembrances  of  good  deeds  and  kind 
words  will  cling  to  me  and  become  ever  more  vivid, 
so  that  the  rainy  days  of  life  —  my  sickness  and  my 
misfortunes  —  may  not  sour  me,  but  that  my  heart 
may  ever  remain  thankful,  ever  happy  until  "I  hear 
the  deep  lave  of  the  broad  ocean  wave,  and  the 
River  at  last  meets  the  Sea." 

A  little  child  shall  lead  them;  a  little  child  shall 

lead  them !  

I  now  admit  that  I  am  beginning  to  sleep. 

Adios,  Claire !  Adios ! 


[33] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

At  Home, 

June  22,  1918. 
My  Ain  Laddie : 

I  knew  those  mountains  would  do  that  for  you! 
Even  had  the  evidence  of  some  of  your  earlier  letters 
been  lacking,  I  could  not  have  doubted  that  almost 
unconsciously  you  were  coming  to  look  from  nature 
up  to  nature's  God.  Such  surroundings  as  yours 
simply  force  one's  spiritual  growth. 

The  man  who  said : 

"I  need  not  shout  my  faith:  thrice  eloquent 
Are  the  quiet  trees  and  the  green  listening  sod. 
Hushed  are  the  stars,  whose  power  is  never  spent; 
The  hills  are  mute — yet  how  they  speak  of  God!" 

must  have  experienced  the  same  potent  influence. 

So,  too,  did  the  author  of  those  exquisite  lines  ' '  To 
a  Mountain  Stream"  which  you  quoted  for  me.  He 
was  blessed  with  a  true  ear,  or  he  never  would  have 
caught  the  message  it  called  to  him  in  passing. 

Truly,  everything  in  Nature  does  stimulate  us  to 
generosity.  She  is  so  prodigal  of  her  gifts;  and  I 
wish  that  I  could  realize,  as  you  have  done,  the  length 
and  breadth  of  application  of  the  lesson  she  would 
impart.  It  occurs  to  me  that  we  should  all  find  the 
path  through  life  infinitely  less  toilsome  if  we  could 
take  to  heart  the  significance  of  that  one  word  — 

[34] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

generosity.  I  think  it  must  be  the  key-note  of  real 
happiness. 

No  wonder  you  and  your  Beaver  Creek  were 
friends  at  first  sight.  It  is  a  perfect  expression  of 
what  your  own  life  has  been,  —  one  glad  whole- 
hearted giving  of  self,  unmindful  of  the  cost.  But 
it  pays,  dear !  "Give  to  the  world  the  best  you  have, 
and  the  best  will  come  back  to  you."  The  best  is 
coming  back  to  you  now  in  the  unquenchable  courage 
with  which  you  are  holding  yourself  down  to  a 
deliberate  facing  of  the  truth,  and  a  splendid  accep- 
tance of  things  as  they  are.  The  return  will  be  yours 
in  full  abundance  when  ' '  the  River  at  last  meets  the 
Sea." 

It  is  a  pity  those  dry-land  farmers  you  spoke  of 
can  not  get  the  brook's  message  too,  and  understand 
that  its  help  in  changing  their  barren  brown  fields 
into  feathery  green  gardens  is  the  very  least  service 
it  can  render.  Why  can't  they  know  that  it  will  per- 
form the  same  unbelievable  wonder  in  their  souls  if 
they  will  only  hear  it  aright  ?  Perhaps  some  of  them 
do,  but  I  fear  that  to  most  of  them  it  is  only  water, 
and  that  "a  beaufield  is  only  a  beaufield. " 

Do  you  remember  all  the  lovely  things  Thoreau 
said  about  his  beaufield?  Well,  they  are  true,  be- 
cause if  a  garden  isn't  a  veritable  wonderland,  then 
I'd  like  to  know  what  is. 

You  see,  I  have  one  myself  —  a  war-garden.  There 
is  a  tiny  space  out  by  the  garage  that  I  persuaded 
the  gardener  to  let  me  have.  He  made  an  awful  row 
about  it  at  first  because  he  had  some  roses  there  that 

[35] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

he  thought  a  lot  of;  but  after  I  had  explained  that 
nobody  could  be  expected  to  eat  roses  and  that  they 
wouldn't  help  our  soldier  boys  any,  he  gave  in.  Of 
course,  I  scratched  my  hands  dreadfully  when  I  pulled 
up  the  bushes;  after  doing  a  lot  of  digging  up  and 
setting  out,  naturally  I  expect  a  successful  harvest. 
I've  been  doing  a  lot  of  thinking  too.  Somehow  a 
garden  makes  you  think. 

There  are  so  many  different  ways  in  which  one 
may  love  all  those  beautiful,  green,  growing  things; 
but  it  seems  that  the  love  of  a  gardener  for  the  things 
he  has  planted  and  reared  is  something  like  the  love 
of  parent  for  child.  Maybe  that  is  why  Andrew  was 
so  grieved  about  his  roses. 

I  remember  one  day  down  in  Panama  we  went  into 
a  florist's  shop  to  buy  some  orchids.  You  know  the 
orchids  there  are  perfectly  marvelous.  The  shopkeeper 
who  came  to  serve  us  seemed  such  a  great  rough  fellow 
that  one  wondered  to  see  him  in  those  beautiful  sur- 
roundings. But  when  he  took  us  into  the  room  where 
the  growing  and  flowering  plants  were,  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  the  transformation!  He  was  no 
longer  the  same  individual.  His  face  softened  and 
brightened,  his  touch  became  so  gentle,  and  his  voice 
so  caressing  as  he  arranged  his  orchids  and  spoke  to 
them,  that  I  was  sure  he  believed  each  blossom  knew 
and  loved  him.  He  handed  us  our  flowers  as  if  he 
were  intrusting  us  with  a  great  treasure.  And  so  he 
was. 

It  was  just  a  little,  every-day  incident,  but  it  im- 
pressed me  inasmuch  as  it  awakened  me  with  a  shock 

[36] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

to  the  fact  that  I  had  been  ignoring  and  missing  some 
of  the  loveliest  things  in  the  world  just  because  I  had 
been  too  careless  and  too  blind  to  see  them.  It  brought 
home  to  me  the  meaning  of  these  words : 

"Flowers  are  thoughts  of  the  Spirit  of  God, 
Their  love  is  the  love  of  His  grace, 
Their  fragrance  is  breath  of  divinity, 
Their  beauty,  the  light  of  His  face." 

Only,  Ladd,  I  should  wish  to  make  them  include 
my  lettuce,  artichokes,  radishes,  and  even  my  weeds. 

Now,  what  my  little  garden  has  done  for  me,  God's 
great  out-of-doors  is  doing  for  you.  I  knew  all  along 
that  the  real  you  felt  its  influence,  even  though  I 
feared  you  were  dwarfing  your  soul  by  yielding  to  the 
fascination  of  the  purely  intellectual. 

Your  association  during  college  life  with  men  whose 
brilliant  minds  made  companionship  rather  like  a 
series  of  mental  fencing-contests  —  each  regarding 
the  other  as  an  opponent  worthy  of  his  steel;  and  all 
on  the  lookout  for  the  slightest  advantage  in  this  war 
of  wits  —  was  responsible  for  your  developing  a  pas- 
sion for  original  and  startling  theories,  which  you 
never  could  have  accepted  in  your  heart.  This  was 
less  a  matter  of  personal  inclination,  I  think,  than  a 
result  of  hypercriticism  which  prevailed  among  your 
set.  A  long-continued  association  of  this  kind  was, 
assuredly  having  its  effect;  yet  there  was  in  your 
character  too  much  of  pure  gold  to  be  substantially 
altered  by  admixture  of  baser  metal. 

[37] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

I  know  it  is  a  popular  pose  to  pretend  that  while 
virtue  is  to  be  commended  in  the  abstract,  in  the  con- 
crete it  makes  rather  dull  reading  and  still  more 
prosaic  living.  I  cannot  help  being  amazed  at  this 
point  of  view,  because  I  always  felt  that  even  if 
virtue  had  nothing  more  to  recommend  it  than  its 
very  attractiveness,  that  would  be  sufficient.  There 
is  an  irresistible  loveliness  in  "whatsoever  things  are 
good,  whatsoever  things  are  pure,"  a  loveliness  which 
sooner  or  later  all  must  acknowledge,  whether  they 
want  to  or  not. 

Why,  Ladd,  isn't  the  difference  between  good  and 
evil  something  like  the  contrast  between  one  of  those 
charming  cafes  where  we  spent  an  hour  after  the 
theatre,  with  its  lights  softly  shaded,  with  all  its  at- 
mosphere perfumed  with  American  Beauties,  with  its 
music  somewhere  behind  the  palms;  and  the  night 
outside  —  the  cool  pure  air,  the  sky  a  glorious  field 
of  daisies  against  a  background  of  blue,  and  the 
moon  sailing  gently  over  all,  such  a  sky  and  moon 
as  you  see  from  your  veranda.  Tell  me,  dear,  which 
scene  will  pall  first? 

Yes,  I  recall  the  incident  on  Long  Island,  and  it 
did  hurt  —  more  deeply  than  you  could  know;  not 
because  of  the  wound  to  my  own  feelings,  but  rather 
because  of  the  fact  that  you  could  think  such  things, 
—  you  whose  faith  should  have  been  your  most 
precious  heritage. 

I  knew  though,  even  at  the  time,  that  it  was  only 
your  pride  of  intellect  which  resented  any  restric- 
tions being  placed  upon  it  that  led  you  to  condemn 

[38] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

the  authorities  whose  sacred  duty  it  is  to  safeguard 
that  faith. 

You  jTourself  have  said,  ' '  As  we  think,  so  we  are. ' ' 
Therefore  is  it  not  for  us  to  think  the  highest  and 
noblest  thoughts,  that  our  words  and  actions  may 
be  the  natural  outgrowth  of  them? 

Pardon,  dearest,  taking  advantage  of  my  woman's 
prerogative  to  use  the  time-honored,  or  dishonored, 
"I  told  you  so,"  as  per  your  prophecy.  In  doing 
this  I  am  not  attributing  to  myself  any  special  clever- 
ness of  insight;  but  merely  am  insisting  upon  my 
undying  faith  in  that  ideal,  which  was,  is,  and  ever 
shall  be  —  you. 

Do  you  know  when  you  hinted  at  the  possibility 
that  your  having  changed  with  regard  to  me  might 
weaken  or  sever  the  tie  between  us,  I  wondered  for 
a  moment  if  you  had  ever  gauged  the  depth  of  my 
affection  for  you  ?  It  would  be  a  poor  and  selfish  thing 
if  it  rested  upon  your  devotion  to  me. 

I  cannot  hope  to  make  you  understand  the  happi- 
ness your  altered  angle  of  vision  has  brought  to  me. 
But  know  this,  dear,  I  have  so  longed  and  prayed 
that  you  would  come  to  feel  that  there  is  nothing 
in  this  little  life  of  ours  which  can  completely  satisfy 
our  heart,  that,  now  the  realization  has  come  to  you, 
you  seem  more  than  ever  mine.  You  were  never  so 
nearly  my  beloved  as  you  will  be  when  the  sunset 
hour  of  your  life  has  passed,  and  I  shall  know  that 
somewhere  you  have  fulfilled  the  ideal  of  all  you 
wished  to  be  in  your  highest  and  finest  moods. 

Just  now,  however,  it  gives  me  a  bit  of  a  heartache 

[39] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

to  think  of  your  being  such  a  long  way  off,  and 
I  wish  I  were  with  you  to  lend  you  some  of  my 
strength  when  you  are  lonely  and  need  help.  But 
such  a  wish  availeth  me  nothing,  so  I  too  must  learn 
to  be  content  with  things  as  they  are. 

As  ever, 
Claire. 


[40] 


FEOM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIEE 

Bear  Paw  Mountains, 

June  25,  1918. 
Dear  Claire :  — 

John  left  early  this  morning  for  Helena  to  fetch 
his  little  comrade  from  the  orphan  asylum.  Nurse 
is  indoors  washing  the  supper  dishes,  or  attending 
to  her  various  other  household  affairs ;  while  the  idle 
one  is  sitting  on  the  veranda  with  Rory,  the  faithful, 
watching  the  sun  sink  slowly  behind  the  far-off, 
Western  Rockies.  I  shall  find  it  hard  to  leave  this 
abode.  It  is  so  peaceful,  so  restful.  It  is  well  named 
Sunset  Cottage,  for  being  high  up  it  catches  the  last 
rays  of  the  dying  sun,  which  seems  somehow  to  cast 

supernatural  spell  about  all  the  surroundings,  illu- 
linating  this  humble  dwelling  much  as  the  halo  does 

le  countenance  of  a  saint,  hovering  and  lingering 
>ver  it  as  if  in  sign  of  God's  special  benediction, 
'erhaps  some  day  when  the  summit  is  reached,  we 

70  shall  return,  and  spend  a  few  weeks  in  this  de- 

jhtful  spot.  Perhaps  !  !  ! Perhaps  !  !  ! 

Ah,  what  a  builder  I  am  of  Spanish  castles! 

3  are  the  music  makers  and  we  are  the  dreamers  of 
dreams, 

randering   by   lone   sea-breakers    or   sitting   by   desolate 
streams ; 

losers  and  world  forsakers  on  whom  the  pale  moon 
gleams, 

[41] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

Yet  we  are  the  makers  and  shakers  of  the  world  forever  it 

seems." 

I  suppose  you  know  what  I  am  thinking  about? 
Yes,  Claire,  the  old,  old  finis  omnium  —  pallida  mors. 
"Sunset  and  evening  star,  and  one  clear  call  for  me, 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  at  the  bar  when  I  put  out  to 

sea." 

Why  is  it  that  we  invariably  link  the  closing  of 
day  with  death?  It  may  be  simply  because  the  twi- 
light hour,  the  lengthening  shadows,  the  approach 
of  night  forcibly  remind  us  that,  in  like  manner,  our 
day's  work  shall  speedily  come  to  a  close,  —  that  soon 
"the  night  cometh  in  which  no  man  shall  work."  Or 
perhaps  it  is  because  the  toil  and  labor  of  the  day 
have  predisposed  us  for  rest  and  sleep ;  and  is  not 
sleep  the  twin-brother  of  death?  However,  be  the 
causes  what  they  may,  the  fact  remains  —  evening 
lends  itself  to  recollection,  to  reviewing  the  past,  to 
meditating  on  the  things  to  come. 

To-night,  like  yonder  trees  on  the  western  horizon, 
my  past  life  looms  up  vivid,  distinct.  Failure  seems 
to  be  the  predominant  note  of  it.  Failure  to  reach 
the  ideals  set  for  myself  long  years  ago;  failure  to 
perform  the  things  determined  upon;  failure  even  to 
reach  the  physical  standard  set  by  the  nation,  which 
would  have  enabled  me  to  enter  the  Army,  and,  at 
least,  end  well  a  career  otherwise  so  unsuccessful; 
for  the  finish  of  the  race,  Claire,  is  what  counts. 

Naturally,  then,  one  becomes  rather  depressed  and 
sad  at  times  over  such  a  past.  What  a  wondrously 

[43] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

wise  doctor  Thomas  a  Kempis  was!  He  diagnosed 
my  case  and  thousands  of  others  when  he  said:  "A 
joyous  going  forth  bringeth  a  sad  return."  How 
happy  we  were  in  the  morning  of  life!  How  bravely 
we  set  forth  on  the  quest !  But,  ah,  me !  the  sadness 
of  the  return  in  the  evening  because,  —  because  of 
the  mistakes,  the  failures  of  the  day;  for 

'It  is  not  the  things  you  do,  dear, 
But  the  things  you've  left  undone 
That  causes  many  a  heartache 
At  the  setting  of  the  sun." 

And  yet,  Pal,  because  these  reminiscences  tend  to 
humble  one,  please  do  not  infer  that  this  cross  I  bear 
is  making  me  a  misanthrope,  that  it  is  souring  me 
against  life  and  men.  No,  I  would  not  have  you  think 
this.  It's  a  glorious  place  to  be  in  this  grand,  old, 
work-a  day  world  of  ours !  And  I  am  oh !  so  happy 
to  be  part  and  parcel  of  it.  Still,  Claire  dear,  should 
my  sojourn  be  rather  a  short  one,  I  would  not  chafe 
under  the  sentence ;  for  it  seems  to  me  one  misses  the 
main  benefit  of  adversity  who  does  not  become  sub- 
missive under  its  chastening  strokes:  while,  on  the 
other  hand,  people  who  have  become  gentle  and  kind 
under  great  suffering  wield  a  strange,  invisible  power, 
—  they  are  magnetic  and  are  well-worth  meeting. 
Haven't  you  found  this  so?  I  have;  and  often  spec- 
ulate as  to  the  reason  behind  this  phenomenon.  It 
appears  to  me  the  solution  is  that  God  desires  real 
men  and  women  to  do  His  work;  and  no  one  can  be 
considered  worthy  of  the  appellation  who  has  not 

[43] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

passed  through  the  crucible.    Francis  Thompson  ex- 
pressed it  well : 

"Ah!  must — 
Designer  infinite! — 

Ah!  must  Thou  char  the  wood  ere  Thou  canst  limn 
With  it?" 

However,  even  disregarding  the  natural  advantages 
that  accrue  to  one  from  adversity  bravely  borne,  there 
is  a  thought  that  over-shadows  all  else  and  sustains 
me  in  the  present  crisis  in  spite  of  the  waves  of  lone- 
someness  and  tediousness  that  at  times  threaten  to 
engulf  me.  Of  late  it  is  forcing  itself  upon  me  with 
renewed  vigor,  and  colors  all  my  ideas.  It  is  the 
simple  fact  of  the  Providence  of  God. 

Not  long  ago  a  party  of  surveyors  enlisted  the  ser- 
vices of  a  half-breed  from  this  neighborhood  to  assist 
them  in  locating  a  new  road  to  the  Missouri  River. 
These  men  intrusted  themselves  entirely  to  their  newly- 
acquired  guide,  submitting  to  his  judgment  as  to  the 
best  way  of  accomplishing  the  object  they  had  in 
view.  There  is  an  Infallible  Guide  Who  knows  all 
the  trails  that  lead  Home.  He  chooses  for  each  of 
us  the  highway  best  suited  to  our  strength  and  en- 
durance. Some  speed  along  a  broad,  smooth  thor- 
oughfare; others  move  by  painful  stages  over  the 
stony  road  of  sickness  and  disease.  Yet  what  matters 
it  provided  we  meet  at  last  at  the  journey 's  end,  — 
provided  our  epitaph  be : 

"The  soldier  is  home  from  the  battle's  din, 
The  traveler  is  safe  in  the  Master's  inn." 

[44] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

Safe  at  last !  The  toil  and  the  heat  of  the  day  are 
over.  "And  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their 
eyes:  and  death  shall  be  no  more,  nor  mourning,  nor 
crying,  nor  sorrow  shall  be  any  more,  for  the  former 
things  are  passed  away."  In  the  meantime,  Claire, 
let  us  steadfastly  journey  on,  trusting  always  in  our 
Guide,  in  our  Lux  in  tenebris. 

"The  night  is  dark  and  I  am  far  from  Home, 
Lead  Thou  me  on!" 

It  may  seem  rather  strange,  but  these  reflections 
of  mine  on  the  failures  of  the  past  do  not  discourage 
me  as  to  the  future.  The  past  is  gone !  God  forgive 
and  wipe  away  all  its  mistakes.  There  is  one  good 
result  springs  from  our  misdeeds  —  they  make  us 
more  humble,  more  diffident  of  ourselves  in  the  future. 
And  for  this  very  reason  I  have  greater  hopes  in  what 
is  before  me.  Oh!  I  may  stumble  again!  I  may 
not  attain  that  literary  success  I  long  for !  But  what 
of  that  ?  If  all  the  old,  broken-down  actors,  bankrupt 
business  men  and  discarded  clerks  were  to  come 
together,  and  one  were  privileged  to  hear  their  life's 
song,  what  a  glorious  harmony  it  would  make  in 
praise  of  better  things  in  men.  Success  is  a  rather 
variable  factor.  Robert  Lewis,  literary  editor  of  the 
Times,  was  once  asked  to  name  the  most  successful 
man  in  New  York  City.  He  singled  out  a  decrepit 
priest,  some  eighty  years  old,  who  had  spent  most  of 
his  life  ministering  to  the  poor  on  the  East  Side ;  and 
who,  after  years  of  hardship  and  toil,  had  scarcely 

[45] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

/ 

enough  to  sustain  himself  in  old  age.     Lewis  was 
right  —  that  man  had  been  a  success  in  life ! 

I  may  not  attain  success,  Claire,  but  I  shall  strive 
very  hard  to  deserve  it.  I  shall  fight  in  the  years  to 
come.  How  vividly  the  words  of  big-hearted  Cyrano 
come  back  to  me  to-night! 

......  "To  work  without  one  thought  of  gain  or  fame, 

To  realize  that  journey  to  the  moon !" 

And  that  wonderful  last  scene  where,  propped 
against  a  tree  in  the  convent  garden,  he  awaits  death, 
sword  in  hand. 

"What  say  you?    It  is  useless?    Ay,  I  know 

But  who  fights  ever  hoping  for  success? 

I  fought  for  lost  cause,  and  for  fruitless  quest!" 


"Parley?    No,  never!    You  too,  Folly, — you? 

I  know  that  you  will  lay  me  low  at  last ; 

Let  be!    Yet  I  fall  fighting,  fighting  still! 

You  strip  from  me  the  laurel  and  the  rose! 

Take  all !    Despite  you  there  is  yet  one  thing 

I  hold  against  you  all,  and  when,  to-night, 

I  enter  Christ's  fair  court,  and  lowly  bowed, 

Sweep  with  doffed  casque  the  heaven's  threshold  blue; 

One  thing  is  left  that,  void  of  stain  or  smutch 

I  bear  away  despite  you 

My  plume !" 

That's  all  that  counts,  Claire,  —  to  keep  one's  plume 
unstained,  to  await  the  end  with  snow-white  heart. 

[46] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

Have  I  been  too  serious?  Blame  it  on  that  gorgeous 
sunset  —  it  made  me  forget  myself. 

Good  night ! 
Ladd. 

P.  S.  It 's  growing  dark.  I  just  now  looked  around ; 
and,  behold !  the  moon  crept  up  out  of  the  east.  That 
same  old  moon  whither  de  Bergerac  yearned  to  go. 
Oh,  those  hearts  of  ours !  Those  hearts  of  ours !  How 
they  sigh  after  the  infinite !  Shall  we,  Claire,  realize 
our  journey  toward  the  moon?  In  God's  good  time 
I  trust  so. 

Good  night  again! 
L. 


[47] 


FROM  CLAIEE  TO  LADDIE 

92nd  Street, 
New  York 
Ladd  Dear, 

How  could  you  accuse  me  of  laughing  at  your 
account  of  that  eventful  day  which  brought  you  a 
blazing  fire,  a  box  of  Pall  Malls,  and  the  promise 
of  a  new  interest  in  life?  Why,  there  are  three 
occurences  with  a  thrill  in  each  one!  What  more 
could  you  ask? 

I  sat  for  a  long  time  thinking  about  the  beautiful 
things  these  friends  of  yours  are  doing  in  taking  into 
their  hearts  and  home  the  little  crippled  lad  from 
Helena;  and  I  rejoice  with  you  that  one  is  allowed 
now  and  then  to  have  his  faith  in  the  innate  goodness 
of  human  nature  confirmed. 

How  rich  these  good  Samaritans  are,  away  off  up 
there,  far  from  the  things  which  our  world  counts 
as  worth  while,  but  so  near  the  real  values  of  life.  1 
think  I  envy  them  with  all  my  heart.  They  have 
their  lovely  mountains,  their  dear  little  home,  their 
love  for  each  other,  and  the  opportunity  of  making 
others  happy. 

All  those  beautiful  gifts  we  can  bestow  like  love,  or 
friendship,  or  kindness,  will  come  back  after  many 
days  to  adorn  and  enrich  our  own  lives.  For  after 
all  it  is  only  by  our  own  giving  that  we  are  enriched. 

[48] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

Wasn't  it  Watts,  the  English  painter,  who  made 
these  words  the  motto  for  the  picture  of  the  death 
of  a  rich  man: 

<rW"hat  he  saved,  he  lost, 
What  he  gave,  he  hath."f 

In  extenuation  of  my  wicked  envy  of  your  friends' 
riches,  let  me  remind  you  that  besides  all  the  blessings 
I've  been  trying  to  sum  up,  the  McDonnells  have  you; 
and  apropos  of  that  same  you,  I  prophesy  a  delightful 
comradeship  between  you  and  the  adopted  son. 

He  will  doubtlessly  possess,  not  only  all  Rory's  car- 
dinal virtues,  —  fidelity,  discretion,  pretty  manners, 
and  the  rest;  but  a  few  additional  ones  of  his  own, 
besides  the  advantages  of  communicativeness  and  in- 
telligence. I  believe  there  are  more  times  than  you 
care  to  say  when  you  are  human  enough  to  feel  that 
you've  had  about  enough  of  scenery  and  solitude, 
and  long  for  more  satisfactory  companionship.  Per- 
haps this  Tiny  Tim  of  the  McDonnells  will,  in  a 
measure,  supply  the  need.  I  wonder  if  I  ought  to 
be  jealous?  I  am  quite  sure  I  ought,  but  equally 
sure  I  can  not.  I  am  too  glad  of  anything  that 
may  brighten  your  days  of  enforced  idleness  ever 
so  little. 

You  can  not  deny  that  you  are  already  making 
plans  which  will  result  in  the  hopeless  spoiling '  of 
the  small  protege  of  your  hosts.  If  Mrs.  McD.  is  wise 
she  will  lay  dawn  a  few  iron-clad  rules,  but  of  course 
she  won't  be,  and  you  will  have  your  own  way  as 
usual. 

[49] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

I,  too,  felt  a  little  warmth  around  my  heart  as 
I  mentally  contemplated  your  cozy,  open  fire,  and, 
above  all,  the  Pall  Malls.  I  remember  you  said  you 
had,  willy-nilly,  sworn  off  smoking,  and  had  con- 
signed to  the  flames  all  occasions  of  temptation  along 
that  line.  This  heroic  holocaust  evoked  ever  so  much 
of  my  sympathy  for  you,  because  I  can  understand 
the  lure  of  my  Lady  Nicotine  almost  as  well  as  if  I 
had  been  a  devotee  at  her  shrine.  So  then  naturally 
I  fancied  that  having,  as  you  said,  burnt  all  your 
bridges,  you  were  engaged  in  bestrewing  their  ashes 
on  your  head.  Now  along  comes  Mr.  McDonnell,  and 
builds  brand  new  ones  for  you.  That  means,  doesn't 
it,  an  improvement  in  your  health? 

You  did  not,  I'm  sure,  foresee  that  your 
"Bachelor's  Reveries"  before  that  fire  was  destined 
to  rouse  in  a  certain,  selfish,  lazy  person  the  desire 
to  do  something  truly  worth  while.  Anyway  it  did ; 
and  I  want  you  to  help  me  think  what  it  might  be. 
You  know  there  may  be  days  ahead  when  life  will  be 
very  dark  and  lonely  for  me,  and  then  I  shall  need 
an  occupation  that  will  keep  me  from  thinking  too 
much  about  it.  What  sayest  thou,  my  lord,  to  a  Red 
Cross  nurse?  Now  don't  you  make  any  of  those 
tiresome  remarks  about  the  costume  being  attractive, 
because  I've  heard  them  all,  and  besides  I'm  serious. 
"Works  of  mercy  have  a  peculiar  attraction  for  me, 
Ladd;  does  that  suggest  a  nurse's  calling? 

Not  long  ago  I  armed  myself  with  flowers  and 
fruit,  and  ran  out  to  the  hospital  to  see  a  special 

[so] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

friend  of  mine.  I  am  quite  sure  I  have  never  told 
you  about  her.  She  is  a  perfect  love  of  an  old  lady 
from  that  most  charming  of  all  places,  Ireland.  She 
has  snow-white  hair,  and  the  sweetest  eyes  I  eve* 
saw.  The  eyes  have  a  true  Irish  smile  in  their 
depths,  and  forgot  to  grotf  old  with  the  rest  of  her, 
—  they  aren't  a  minute  over  sixteen.  She  tells  about 
the  famine  in  Ireland  as  though  it  had  happened  last 
week.  She  suffers  a  great  deal,  but  is  wonderfully 
patient  and  cheery. 

To-day,  however,  she  seemed  quieter  than  usual, 
and  for  a  long  time  just  listened  to  my  chatter  with- 
out saying  anything  herself.  Finally  I  noticed 
that  she  was  gazing  at  me  with  her  customary  ani- 
mation, so  I  settled  myself  for  one  of  her  fascinating 
reminiscences.  Instead  of  the  story,  she  asked  me, 
with  a  soulful  look,  where  I  got  "that  darlin'  of  a 
hat ! ' '  There  you  have  the  eternal  feminine  —  she 's 
only  eighty-nine!  It  transpired  that  as  a  girl  she 
had  been  a  milliner,  which  accounts  for  her  interest 
in  modes. 

Next  came  a  visit  to  some  tiny  incurables.  First 
of  all,  a  two-year  old  boy  with  a  broad,  white  fore- 
head, pale  gold  hair,  large  serious  violet  eyes,  and 
a  useless  foot.  When  I  laid  a  great  orange  in  his 
hand,  he  was  the  exact  counterpart  of  a  statue  I 
saw  somewhere  of  the  Infant  Redeemer.  You  know 
the  one  where  He  rests  on  the  arm  of  St.  Joseph, 
and  holds  the  world  in  His  little  palm.  This  baby 
friend  of  mine  never  smiles,  but  when  he  sees  some  one 

[Si] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

whom  he  likes,  his  face  brightens  and  fairly  radiates 
light,  while  not  a  muscle  moves.  He  is  wonderful, 
dear ;  I  wish  you  could  see  him ! 

Then  there  is  a  bit  of  a  girl  with  a  crooked  spine, 
and  the  great,  black,  wondering  eyes  of  a  Murillo 
angel. 

I  could  write  volumes  about  them  all  but  I  won't 
tire  you.  I  won't  even  tell  you  about  the  little  darky 
twins  who  are  so  black  and  shiny,  and  as  exactly  alike 
as  two  licorice  drops.  I  am  sure  you  would  have 
liked  them. 

I  forgot  to  mention  that  these  babies  are  foundlings. 
Isn't  it  unbelievable  that  any  one  could  be  so  heart- 
less as  to  desert  the  poor,  helpless,  wee  things;  and 
isn't  it  a  blessed  comfort  to  know  that  they  have 
one  Friend  Who  said:  "Suffer  them  to  come  unto 
Me?"  All  the  way  home  I  prayed  that  He  might 
take  the  little  boy  with  the  pale  gold  hair,  and  the 
girl  with  cherub's  eyes,  before  they  learn  more  about 
the  world  which  doesn't  want  them. 

It  may  be  that  their  special  mission  is  to  make 
those  of  us  who  are  privileged  to  come  into  contact 
with  them  a  trifle  less  worldly  and  selfish.  Neverthe- 
less it  weighs  on  one's  heart;  and  I  am  rather  de- 
pressed and  sad  to-night,  Ladd. 

I'm  waiting  anxiously  to  make  your  Tiny  Tim's 
acquaintance.  And  oh,  yes!  just  one  more  admoni- 
tion. Should  your  commanding  officer  again  assign 
you  to  sentinel  duty  on  the  veranda  in  the  rain,  say 
this  to  yourself: 

[52] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

"So  in  the  common  quiet  of  our  lives 
Some  cares   and  sorrows  like  these  dreary  showers 
Chill  with  the  breath  of  winter,  gray  with  grief  — 
But  in  the  end,  the  sunlight  and  the  flowers." 

And  you'll  find  yourself  smiling. 

You  see,  Laddie,  you  and  I  have  to  school  ourselves 
to  look,  not  at  the  clouds  and  the  rain  before  us,  but 
above  and  beyond  to  where  we  hope  some  day  to 
find  for  always,  the  sunlight  and  the  flowers. 

Claire. 

Somewhere  on  the  Great  Lakes, 
June  30,1918. 

Are  you  surprised,  Ladd,  to  find  me  out  here,  so 
far  from  home,  and  so  near  to  you?  I'll  tell  you 
how  it  happened.  Mother  has  fancied  of  late  (quite 
wrongly,  of  course,  as  I'm  always  well)  that  I'm 
growing  thinner;  so  when  Alice  wrote  me  that  her 
brother  Bob  and  his  wife  were  taking  a  little  party 
out  for  a  few  weeks  on  and  around  the  Lakes,  and 
wanted  me  along,  why,  mother  insisted  —  and  here 
I  am. 

I  said  I  simply  wouldn't  come  unless  I  could  be 
back  in  three  weeks.  It  is  then  your  precious  letters 
are  due,  and  I  wouldn't  miss  them  by  a  fraction  of 
a  second  for  a  trip  to  Mars  and  back. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  we  are  off  on  any  sort  of 
lark  in  these  troubled  times ;  but  it  isn't  really  a  lark. 
Bob  just  had  to  come.  You  see  so  many  of  his  men  are 
off  at  the  training  camps  or  already  "over  there," 

[53] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

that  he  has  had  a  great  deal  of  extra  work  and  worry 
about  the  factory.  The  doctor  told  him  finally  that 
if  he  didn't  slow  up  he  would  break  down  entirely, 
and  Bob  had  the  sense  to  see  he  was  right.  Then, 
too,  Alice  needed  a  bit  of  relaxation.  Her  fiance 
sailed  two  weeks  ago,  and  though  she  was  perfectly 
splendid  about  it — sent  Jerry  off  with  a  smile,  and 
told  him  it  was  next  best  to  going  herself  —  she  finds 
her  courage  waning  now  he's  gone. 

We  are  having  a  delightful  little  voyage,  as  every 
arrangement  is  made  for  our  comfort.  All  our  wishes 
are  anticipated  on  board  this  pocket-edition  Cunard- 
liner  of  Bob's.  In  fact  everything  is  too  perfect.  It 
is  as  though  people  set  too  much  store  by  that  sort 
of  thing ;  and  yet,  way  down  in  their  hearts,  the  rest 
don't  care  any  more  about  it  than  I  do. 

To-night  after  dinner,  I  ran  off  by  myself  to  a 
little  corner  where  I  felt  sure  no  one  could  find  me. 
Then  I  thought  of  quantities  of  things  I  wanted  to 
talk  to  you  about,  but  you  weren't  there,  you  know, 
so  I  said  them  to  the  stars.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  that 
the  best  part  of  being  with  you  was  that  I  didn't  have 
to  say  things.  Each  of  us  knew  about  what  the  other 
was  thinking  anyway.  I  wonder  if  either  of  us  will 
ever  find  more  perfect  comradeship  ?  Even  now  those 
few  hundred  miles  are  about  all  that  separate  us. 

Then  I  was  musing  over  Alice,  thinking  how  brave 
she  is.  Though  her  whole  heart  is  over  there  with 
Jerry,  she  lets  no  one  see  it.  She  is  always  her  old, 
bright,  charming  self.  Then  I  wondered  if  there 
were  not  some  other  givings  up  that  are  harder  still 

[54] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

than  hers.  At  least  she  knows  there  is  a  chance  that 
some  day  her  soldier  will  come  back.  From  some- 
where back  in  my  memory,  these  lines  resounded: 

"Since  you  went  away,  I  have  entered  within 

A  sisterhood  mystic  and  great, 

Of  women  who've  learned  the  great  lesson  to  give, 

And  are  learning  another,  to  wait. 

But  I  strive,  like  the  rest,  not  to  doubt  or  to  fear; 

To  murmur,  or  sigh,  or  complain, 

But  to  trust  in  His  might,  and  to  know,  by  His  grace, 

That  your  sacrifice  cannot  be  vain." 

For  what  do  accidents  of  time  or  place  matter,  or 
even  what  one's  "bit"  may  be,  if  only  he  "plays 

the  game?"  Sacrifice  is  sacrifice Just  then, 

along  came  Bob,  smoking  that  villainous  pipe  of 
his,  which  Elizabeth  considers  her  only  rival,  and 
asked  me  what  in  all  creation  I  was  moping  out 
there  for.  I  started  to  make  some  frivolous  reply, 
but  changed  my  mind  when  he  sat  down  in  the  big 
chair  next  to  me,  and  looked  at  me  in  his  nice  big 
brotherly  way.  So  then  I  told  him  I  was  thinking 
about  you,  and  just  indulging  in  some  undisturbed 
lonesomeness.  He  offered  to  go  away  if  I  didn't  want 
to  talk,  but  if  I  did,  he'd  like  to  have  some  news 
himself. 

I  told  him  where  you  were,  and  your  reason  for 
being  there;  and  finally  got  around  to  that  meeting 
between  Ladd,  the  class-orator,  and  Jack  Carter,  the 
valedictorian.  He  was  awfully  sorry  about  Jack,  but 
yet  was  not  entirely  astonished.  He  recalled  that 
Jack  had  shown  such  possibilities  for  good  that  every 

[55] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

one  expected  great  things  of  him;  and  one  time  you 
had  remarked  that  you  hoped  Jack  would  never  get 
off  the  right  track  because  if  he  did  he  would  do  it 
so  very  thoroughly.  Then  Bob  added,  with  a  grin: 
"Bet  my  hat  old  Ladd  said,  'Corruptio  optimi 
pessima. ' 

Did  you? 

Suddenly  he  jumped  to  his  feet  and  yelled,  ' '  Great 
Scott !  I  forgot  that  I'd  been  sent  out  to  find  you  and 
send  you  in  to  give  an  account  of  yourself.  The 
mob  is  all  swarmed  around  the  piano  making  night 
hideous,  and  I  reckon  they  want  you  to  help.  Now 
you  run!" 

So  I  ran. 

On  terra  firma, 
A  week  later. 

One  perfect  evening  we  landed  on  the  shore  of 
Lake  Superior  and  came  up  through  the  dusk  to  a 
log  bungalow  in  the  midst  of  several  hundred  acres 
of  white  pine  and  cedar;  and  here  we  are  to  remain 
for  another  week  or  so. 

It  seemed  at  first  glance  to  be  an  ideally  primitive 
place,  but  once  in  the  log  cabin,  we  found  so  many 
accessories  of  civilization  that  I  was  afraid  to  look 
out  of  the  windows  in  the  morning  for  fear  of  dis- 
covering golf-links !  What  an  Old-Man-of-the-Sea  the 
world  is,  and  how,  for  the  hundredth  time,  I  envy 
you  your  sheep-ranch  in  the  Bear  Paw. 

It  is  late  afternoon  now,  and  I  am  established 

[56] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

down  by  an  old  deserted  lumber-camp  on  the  place, 
with  nothing  but  the  tall,  tranquil  trees  for  company. 
Here  I  can  talk  to  you  undisturbed.  What  shall  I 
tell  you  first  —  how  we  are  amusing  ourselves? 

A  couple  of  days  after  our  arrival,  we  were  joined 
by  some  of  the  men  from  one  of  the  officers'  training- 
camps.  They  have  been  furloughed  for  a  few  days 
preparatory  to  sailing.  Most  of  them  are  classmates 
of  Bob 's,  and  of  yours  too,  by  the  way,  so  he  captured 
them  for  part  of  the  time.  The  only  stranger  is  a 
young  French  officer  who  was  sent  to  the  U.  S.  to  act 
as  instructor,  and  who  is  now  returning  with  the 
others. 

Most  of  our  evenings  are  spent  in  the  huge  living- 
room,  gathered  about  the  log  fire.  The  talk  is,  need- 
less to  say,  mostly  war-talk. 

The  French  soldier  had  been  in  the  thick  of  things 
for  a  long  time.  His  stories  of  trench  life  —  and 
trench  deaths  —  fairly  sizzle  with  interest.  The  kind 
of  interest  that  makes  you  want  to  laugh  and  cry  at 
the  same  time.  Our  men  are  literally  counting  the 
minutes  until  they  can  be  off! 

There !  despite  my  resolutions,  I  seem  constantly  to 
be  reopening  that  wound  of  yours.  But  I  console 
myself  with  the  thought  that  since  your  "bit"  is  to 
"sheathe  the  sword,"  the  courage  which  nerves  you 
to  "play  the  game"  as  you  are  doing  it,  is  not  an 
unsubstantial  and  fickle  something  like  the  stuff 
dreams  are  made  of,  but  something  very  real  which 
diffuses  itself  to  increase  the  sum  total  of  the  world's 
store.  You  remember  Meredith  said: 

[57] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

"No  life  can  be  pure  in  its  purpose  and  strong  in  its  strife, 
And  all  life  not  be  purer  and  stronger  thereby." — 

Last  night,  Bob's  wife  suggested  that  we  drop  all 
tragedy,  and  go  down  to  the  shore  for  a  good  old 
college-evening.  Accordingly  we  had  an  immense 
bonfire,  and  while  the  men  all  smoked  their  cigarettes 
—  only  they  now  call  them  fags — there  were  songs 
and  stories  galore.  Isn't  it  remarkable  what  a  bond 
those  dear  songs  form  ? 

Somehow  it  came  about  that  somebody  near  me 
asked  about  you,  and  Bob  told  him  you  had  rather 
gone  under  temporarily,  and  had  been  packed  off 
West  to  be  braced  up  again;  which  was  the  only 
reason  you  were  not  in  training  with  them.  The 
other  said: 

"Oh  yes,  Ladd  was  always  a  fiend  for  work;  but 
he'll  be  on  his  feet  again  in  no  time." 

A  third  commented: 

"Curious  fellows,  these  writer-chaps,  forever  work- 
ing themselves  to  death,  and  acting  as  if  they  en- 
joyed it!" 

I  won't  tell  you  all  they  said,  because  I  don't  ap- 
prove of  spoiling  people;  but  I  gathered  that  in  a 
general  way  Ladd  was  deemed  the  best  fellow  and 
truest  friend  ever  lived. 

Some  one  told  about  the  night  after  a  big  game 
which  you  had  helped  to  win  for  them,  when  the 
crowd  met  to  celebrate,  and  you  failed  to  appear.  A 
search  revealed  the  fact  that  you  had  gone  to  sit 
with  the  old  taxi-driver  who  used  to  bring  the  boys 

[58] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

up  from  the  station.  He  was  sick,  and  you  had  been 
cheering  him  up  and  looking  after  him  when  none  of 
the  rest  had  thought  of  it.  Your  excuse  for  deserting 
the  boys  was  that  "you  had  promised  the  poor  old 
fellow  you  would  come,  and  thought  they  wouldn't 
miss  you." 

"Ladd  thought  we  wouldn't  miss  him!  Did  you 
get  that?"  demanded  Billy  Clarke. 

You  never  told  me  this,  though  I  seem  to  remember 
that  you  often  spoke  of  the  fine  things  the  other 
boys  did. 

Finally,  at  star  time,  the  fire  died  out ;  and  as  the 
moon  had  risen  gloriously,  we  let  it  stay  dead. 

Then  there  grew  a  wonderful  silver  path  from  us 
straight  out  to  the  moon  herself:  and  I  found  myself 
pondering  if  all  the  tiny  wavelets  which  went  to  make 
up  this  glittering  pathway  would  ever  again  feel 
quite  like  the  others ;  or  if  they  would  keep  ever  after 
some  of  the  gentle  warmth  and  softness  imparted  by 
the  moonbeam's  kiss. 

Isn't  it  a  bit  the  same  with  our  lives?  No  one  can 
live  entirely  unto  himself  but  must  unconsciously  in- 
fluence and  be  influenced  by  every  other  life  he  meets. 

"No  star  ever  rose  and  set  without  influence  some- 
where." How  much  more  then  must  a  human  life 
have  its  effect  for  good  or  ill !  It  makes  one  feel  ter- 
ribly important  and  responsible,  doesn't  it?  But 
I  know  it's  true;  since  my  own  life  is  broader  and 
nobler  for  having  met  yours :  and  I  can  not  help  hop- 
ing that  yours  is  just  a  little  brighter  or  more  happy 
for  having  crossed  mine. 

[59] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

There  you  have  it!  A  frank  admission  that  my 
thoughts  are  always  traveling  in  a  circle.  They  begin 
with  you,  and  no  matter  how  far  they  wander,  back 
they  are  once  more  at  the  starting-place. 

This  is  perverse,  I  know,  because  every  one  here 
is  so  charming  and  tries  to  make  one  content.  To 
be  sure  they  don't  suspect  it,  but  this  particular  one 
is  ungrateful  and  refuses  to  be  content. 

Won't  you  let  me  persuade  your  mother  to  come 
to  your  Bear  Paw  and  bring  me  with  her?  You'd 
better  say,  yes,  because  I  solemnly  warn  you  that  I 
shall  come  anyway,  if  you  stay  much  longer.  Here  is 
sufficient  reason,  if  you  want  one: 

"Because  the  sunset  sky 
Makes  music  in  my  soul 
Only  to  fail  and  die; 
Shall  I  not  take  the  whole 
Of  beauty  that  it  gives 
While  yet  it  lives?" 

Tell  me  why  not?    If  you  can ! 

Lovingly, 

Claire. 


[60] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

Sunset  Cottage, 

July  10,  1918 
Dearest  Claire, 

Altogether  unknowingly,  the  last  few  lines  you 
penned  cost  me  quite  a  struggle  —  I  trust  you  will 
never  realize  how  violent  it  was ! 

Some  three  weeks  ago  I  noticed  for  the  first  time 
a  little  cottage  almost  entirely  hidden  among  the 
trees,  on  one  of  the  neighboring  mountainsides.  In- 
quiring  of  John  about  the  inhabitants  of  this  house, 
I  was  told  it  was  the  abode  of  a  newly-married  couple, 
the  husband  being  often  employed  by  John  in  the 
shearing-season. 

I  see,  at  times,  this  stalwart  youth  hurrying  home- 
ward after  the  day's  toil  is  over.  His  eager  stride 
proclaims  the  pleasant  surprise  that  awaits  him.  And 
I  find  myself  muttering:  "Lucky  fellow!  Lucky 
fellow,  to  possess  strength,  a  sweetheart,  a  home!" 

From  my  citadel  on  the  porch,  when  shadows  are 
long  and  eventide  is  here,  my  eyes  repeatedly  revert 
to  that  spot.  I  see  the  light  twinkling  through  the 
trees;  I  recall  what  that  little  lamp  symbolizes,— 
home,  companionship,  mutual  trust  and  affection,  and 
—  well,  it's  a  hard  struggle  for  "the  outcast"  to 
keep  back  his  tears. 

In  this  frame  of  mind  I  receive  a  letter  from 

[61] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

Claire.  I  can  only  describe  it  as  perfectly  in  keeping 
with  her  name  —  beautiful.  I  read  between  the  lines, 
and  discover  in  that  beautiful  letter,  Claire's  more 
beautiful  soul.  I  have  only  to  write  the  word, ' '  Come, ' ' 
and  Claire  will  join  me.  Home  and  a  light  shining 
through  the  darkness  —  these  will  be  a  reality  for 
Ladd. 

Imagine  then  the  struggle!  A  hundred  times,  if 
once,  I  have  asked  myself  how  I  ever  deserved  such 
a  gift  from  God.  And  honestly  Claire,  I  pity  from 
my  heart  those  former  chums  of  mine  who  are  con- 
stantly bent  on  pitying  me.  I'm  not  to  be  pitied; 
I'm  to  be  envied.  This  sickness  has  revealed  to  me 
many  things,  and  by  no  means  the  least  has  been 
the  unfolding  before  my  eyes  of  the  soul  of  a  heroine. 

At  present  I  can  not  trust  myself  to  reply  in  detail 
to  your  generous  letter.  There  are,  of  course,  physical 
obstacles  —  I  'm  unable  to  do  my  share ;  and  I  judge 
it  unfair  that  one  should  be  called  upon  to  pull  the 
load  destined  for  two,  since  marriage  may  become 
rather  irksome  under  such  circumstances.  Neverthe- 
less, I  already  know  your  answer  to  this  objection; 
your  unselfish  nature  would  cast  it  aside  as  unworthy 
even  of  consideration.  Perhaps  you  are  right.  Yet 
know  this,  Claire,  that  Ladd  can  not  in  justice  to 
yourself  write  that  word  which  means  so  much  to 
him.  Sometime  (sooner,  perchance,  than  you  sus- 
pect)—  when  not  so  much  physically  as  spiritually 
he  is  worthy  of  you  —  when  he  has  willingly  and 
joyfully  passed  through  the  crucible,  and  purged  his 

[62] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

soul  of  all  selfish  and  ignoble  thoughts  and  desires  — 
sometime,  in  the  sometime  that  will  be  eternal,  Ladd 
shall  utter  that  magic  word,  and  loyal  and  true  to 
the  end  (to  the  beginning,  rather,  for  it  shall  be  the 
beginning  for  us)  my  Ain  Lassie  will  respond,  and 
our  happiness  will  be  all  the  more  complete  because 
of  the  loneliness  and  the  waitings  we  must  now  needs 
accept. 

But  a  few  moments  ago  I  returned  from  a  quiet 
stroll  around  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain.  I 
chanced  upon  an  old,  uninviting  shack,  tottering  to 
ruin.  Some  quaint  Scotch  man  must  have  lived  there ; 
for,  over  the  front  door,  in  letters  carved  from  the 
bark  of  trees,  were  the  words :  ' '  Bide  a  Wee ! ' ' 

Bide  a  Wee!  That  invitation  burnt  into  my 
memory.  The  words  seemed  a  command  from 
heaven  —  a  message  of  consolation  to  strengthen  us 
in  our  present  trial.  Bide  a  Wee !  Like  the  old  shack, 
our  prospects  in  the  immediate  future  are  somewhat 
uninviting,  yet  bide  a  wee,  Claire,  till  the  Master 
points  out  the  trail,  and  we  journey  along  it  together. 
Lovingly, 

Ladd. 

John  has  just  returned  with  King  Albert,  not  oi 
the  Belgians,  but  of  the  McDonnells.  Preparations 
though  were  the  same,  and  the  welcome  just  as  whole- 
hearted as  if  in  truth  his  majesty,  King  Albert,  had 
arrived.  Nothing  was  omitted  which  loyal  hearts 
could  devise.  I've  been  presented.  More  later. 

L. 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

Sunset  Cottage, 
Bear  Paw  Mts., 

July  25,  1918. 

You  recall  the  scene,  Claire:  the  dimly-lighted 
dormitory;  the  boys,  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  preparing 
for  bed;  little  Arthur  pausing  awhile  by  his  bedside 
to  render  thanks  to  the  Maker  for  preserving  him 
during  the  day;  the  contemptuous  glances  of  the 
bully,  and  his  dastardly  act  of  throwing  a  shoe  at  the 
kneeling  figure;  the  look  of  utter  amazement  in  the 
face  of  Arthur's  champion,  Tom  Brown;  then  that 
glorious  act  of  chivalry  in  shying  his  own  shoe  at  the 
coward,  and  his  ringing  challenge  to  the  whole 
student-body:  "If  any  one  wants  the  other  shoe,  he 
knows  how  to  get  it!"  finally  after  the  lights  were 
out,  those  long  hours  of  introspection  and  bitter 
self-accusation  as  Tom  reviewed  his  own  blameworthy 
conduct  in  the  light  of  the  newcomer's  courage;  and, 
at  last,  his  generous  resolve  to  conquer  all  human 
respect,  and  kneel  down  next  morning  before  his 
companions,  and,  indifferent  to  their  sneers  of  con- 
tempt or  glances  of  approbation,  to  return  to  the 
custom  his  own  dear  mother  had  begged  him  never 
to  omit,  of  spending  a  few  moments  on  his  knees  every 
morning  and  evening  to  pay  his  respects  to  the 
Creator  of  all ;  then  the  reward : 

"And  Tom  Brown  went  down  to  the  study-hall 
that  morning  with  the  glimmer  of  another  lesson  in 
his  heart  —  the  lesson  that  he  who  conquers  his  own 

[64] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

coward  spirit  does  more  than  he  who  conquers  the 
whole,  outward  world." 

As  a  boy  I  thought  I  would  never  forget  that 
realistic  picture  painted  by  the  old  Master  of  Rugby. 
But  I  did  —  I  did;  until  last  evening,  when  it  re- 
turned, very  unexpectedly  and  very  distinctly. 

Two  nights  ago,  for  the  first  time,  Albert  slept 
on  the  porch.  I  noticed  the  little  fellow  remained 
quite  a  time  on  his  knees  beside  the  low  cot  but 
recently  purchased  for  him.  Fearing  he  would  con- 
tract a  cold,  I  rather  summarily  remarked:  "Albert, 
jump  into  bed  at  once ! ' ' 

He  obeyed ;  but  rather  reluctantly,  I  fancied.  More- 
over, the  following  day  he  was  quite  distant,  avoiding 
me  whenever  he  possibly  could,  and  answering  my 
questions  only  in  monosyllables.  The  situation  was 
puzzling.  This  was  not  the  frank,  guileless  Albert 
I  had  known  and  conversed  with  familiarly,  but  an 
entirely  new  individual,  distrustful,  and  rather  slow 
in  forgiving  a  supposed  slight. 

Why  the  change?  Very  simple  —  that  little  Tom 
Brown  incident  on  the  veranda  accounts  for  every- 
thing. 

Most  children,  and  especially  cripples,  are  very 
sensitive.  I  might  add  too,  very  sincere.  My  words 
to  Albert  were  ill-timed  —  I  should  have  waited  until 
he  had  finished  his  prayers.  Then  also,  my  example. 
Recollect,  Claire,  that  each  night  on  retiring  Albert 
witnessed  his  companions  kneeling  for  a  moment  with 
joint  hands  in  prayer  to  God.  As  far  back  as  he  could 
remember,  both  he  and  his  young  associates  never 

[65] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

omitted  this  practice  —  it  was  part  and  parcel  of 
their  very  being.  Never,  therefore,  did  it  enter  into 
his  honest  little  heart  to  suspect  the  existence  of  an 
individual,  or  class  of  individuals,  who  constantly 
neglected  this  simple  act.  Not  alone  my  words,  but 
my  conduct  especially  was  a  revelation  —  a  shock  to 
him.  I  must  indeed  be  "a  real  bad  man,"  an  atheist, 
a  person  to  be  shunned  at  all  costs:  or,  perhaps,  a 
brand  to  be  rescued  from  the  fire,  one  for  whom  he 
should  pray. 

I  am  inclined  to  think  that  this  last  role  made  the 
strongest  appeal  to  Albert.  Being  a  gentle  lad,  I 
fancy  he  was  averse  to  the  prospect  of  having  to 
satisfy  his  conscience  at  the  price  of  being  distant 
and  rude  to  me.  And,  hence,  he  determined  to 
gradually  drop  all  external  manifestation  of  dis- 
pleasure towards  me,  and  to  turn  his  energy  to  peti- 
tioning for  the  salvation  of  my  soul. 

Anyway,  last  night  he  began  the  attack.  This  morn- 
ing I  am  very  much  disposed  to  concede  that  he 
attained  his  objective. 

It  was  later  than  usual  when  he  stole  out  onto  the 
porch,  a  white-robed,  angelic,  little  figure,  and 
straightway  limped  to  his  cot,  kneeling  down  beside 
it. 

Knowing  the  boy  to  have  resented  my  intrusion  of 
the  evening  before,  I  waited  a  short  time,  then  re- 
marked: "  Albert  dear,  you  must  not  kneel  on  the 
porch  in  your  bare  feet. ' ' 

No  word  in  reply. 

Once  again,  this  time  rather  curtly: 

[66] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

"Into  bed,  Albert!  Otherwise  I  may  be  obliged 
to  inform  Mrs.  McDonnell  of  your  conduct." 

For  some  moments  more  no  sound  was  heard. 
Then  silence  gave  place  to  a  low  sob,  and,  before  I 
realized  it,  the  little  fellow  was  crying  as  if  his  heart 
would  break. 

I  quickly  arose,  donned  my  bath-robe,  and  going 
over  put  my  arms  about  him.  But  no!  he  would 
have  none  of  me,  and  continued  to  cry,  calling 
piteously  between  his  sobs  for  "Mother"  (Mrs. 
McDonnell).  I  finally  deemed  it  advisable  to  awake 
her;  and  (would  you  believe  it,  Claire?)  it  was  only 
after  administering  an  opiate,  and  Nurse  had  stayed 
by  his  bed  two  or  three  hours  that  he  at  last  dozed 
off  into  a  troubled  sleep. 

His  sensitive  nature,  the  excitement  of  the  journey, 
his  new  surroundings,  and  the  little  incident  of  the 
night  previous  (which  somehow  he  could  not  dismiss 
from  his  thoughts,  as  he  mentioned  it  continually  to 
his  new-found  mother  during  the  day) — this  last 
then,  combined,  perhaps,  with  the  other  circumstances, 
had  proved  too  much  for  our  beloved  Tiny  Tim  — 
the  bright,  young  cripple,  who  had  at  last  found  a 
home  in  the  far-off  mountains  of  the  Bear  Paw. 

"But  sleep  seemed  to  have  deserted  the  pillow  of 
poor  Tom." 

I  never  fully  sympathized  with  Tom  before.  I 
do  now.  I  can  calculate  to  a  nicety  just  what  agonies 
of  remorse  he  went  through  that  night  in  the  dormi- 
tory from  what  I  experienced  last  night  on 
McDonnell's  porch. 

[67] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

It's  rather  interesting  to  reflect  what  a  change  time 
will  bring  about  in  one's  viewpoint  of  life.  A  year 
ago  I  was  quite  well  satisfied  as  to  my  relations  with 
God,  or,  rather  —  to  be  more  correct  —  I  was  so  well 
satisfied  with  myself  and  with  my  achievements  as  to 
have  no  time  to  waste  on  considerations  (to  me,  of 
small  importance)  of  my  dependence  upon  a 
Superior  Being.  He,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  was 
out  of  the  reckoning.  These  months  of  forced  in- 
activity, however,  have  accentuated  the  claims  of  the 
Almighty.  Yet  it  remained  for  a  little  child  to  bring 
the  realization  of  them  home  to  me. 

A  little  child,  Claire,  doubtlessly  sent  to  me,  as 
was  the,  Divine  Child  to  the  Bethlehemites,  to  impress 
personally  upon  my  unthinking  soul  the  absolute 
necessity  of  living  out  those  essential  relation^  prac- 
tically in  my  daily  life.  Albert  revealed  to  me  last 
night  what  a  cad  I  have  been,  and  so,  after  seriously 
revolving  once  more  to  begin  anew,  it  was  to  Albert 
I  went  to  humble  myself.  I  told  the  lad  that,  before 
going  out  on  the  porch,  he  and  I  would  say  our 
prayers  together  each  night.  You  should  have  wit- 
nessed the  look  of  genuine  happiness  that  spread 
over  his  countenance,  Claire! 

I  wonder  what  would  become  of  this  world  were 
it  not  for  the  faces  of  little  children  —  faces  that, 
like  crystal,  -Deflect  the  spotless  souls  within,  and 
recall  to  our  minds  the  criterion  the  Master  set  for 
us  —  the  criterion  to  which  all  of  us,  no  matter  how 
advanced  in  age  we  be,  strive  to  conform:  "Unless 

[68] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

you  become  as  little  children,  you  can  not  enter  the 
kingdom  of  Heaven." 

For  you  see,  Claire,  children's  eyes  look  up  to  us 
on  their  way  to  God,  and,  plainly,  we  must  banish 
all  selfish,  base  thoughts  from  our  souls  in  order 
duly  to  perform  the  sacred  office  of  ministering  to 
innocence. 

Affectionately, 
Ladd. 

July  28,  1918. 

Rain !  Rain !  Rain !  The 

mountain  sides  are  hidden  under  a  dull-gray  coat  of 
falling  water.  Beaver  Creek  has  suddenly  grown  into 
a  ruthless  giant,  and,  roaring  mightily,  pursues  his 
course,  heedless  of  everything  in  the  way.  The 
thunder  echoes  and  re-echoes  across  the  canyon.  The 
fitful  lightning  momentarily  brightens  the  wild, 
bleak  scene.  Even  placid  Rory  is  disturbed  —  he 
sinuously  creeps  up  to  me  as  I  sit  before  the  hearth, 
begging  in  his  dumb  way  for  protection  from  the 
elements  without. 

Albert,  who,  until  a  few  moments  ago,  had  been 
deeply  engrossed  in  a  fairy  tale,  returns  from  peering 
through  the  nebulous  windows,  and  once  more  resumes 
his  book  and  his  place  by  my  side. 

The  ''pilgrim,"  with  a  "fag"  as  companion,  is 
occupied  in  watching  the  bright-red  flame  before  him, 
when  —  lo !  an  unusual  chirp  is  heard.  I  look  down, 
and  spy  a  little  cricket  hopping  between  Albert's 

[69] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

chair  and  mine.  The  cricket  on  the  hearth,  Claire! 
Tell  me,  quaint  black  harbinger  of  future  peace  and 
happiness,  tell  me  what  does  your  visit  signify  ?  What 
invisible  cord  are  you  weaving  between  Albert's  life 
and  mine  ?  What  hidden  link  are  you  quietly  forging 
between  his  career  and  the  "pilgrim's"? 

I  am  more  anxious  than  you  perhaps  fancy  to  have 
the  above  question  solved;  for,  in  some  vague  way,  1 
am  convinced  that  yonder  lad's  future  is  to  be  in- 
timately associated  with  my  own. 

Claire, —  you  who  arrayed  becomingly  in  gray 
could  simulate  knowledge  of  the  future  to  the  com- 
plete satisfaction  of  your  guests  —  can  you  not  look 
into  my  cup  to-night  and  solve  this  riddle  ? 

Please,  stop  laughing!  And  yet  I'm  amused  my- 
self —  I  'm  amused  at  my  own  seriousness. 

Always  take  for  granted  my  greetings  to  your 
mother  —  I'm  inclined  to  forget  everybody  except 
YOU  when  writing. 

Lovingly, 

Ladd. 


[70] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

July  15,  1918. 

My  Ain  Laddie, 

They  teil  of  men  who  give  up  their  lives  in  battle 
with  a  smile.  Is  life,  then,  more  than  all  that  makes 
life  worth  the  living  —  happiness,  companionship, 
love  ?  You  say  that  you  can  not  write  the  word  that 
will  bring  me  to  you  —  and  even  as  you  write  them, 
the  words  in  your  letter  seem  to  smile  a  little;  for 
you  will  always, 

11 journey  along  in  the  lilt  of  a  song." 

But  between  the  lines  there  isn't  a  smile.  Ah,  Laddie 
mine,  you  have  called  me  a  gift  of  God.  Shall  mere 
man  reject  what  God  so  freely  offers?  Oh,  I  sup- 
pose it  is  unwomanly  to  force  the  issue  —  but  after 
all,  is  a  day's  happiness  any  less  thrillingly  sweet 
than  that  of  a  long  life  thrut  I  promise  of  course, 
that  I  shall  await  your  word,  but,  Laddie,  think  — 
"Home — and  a  light  shining  thru  the  darkness — 
Claire." 

I've  just  read  what  I've  written,  and  I 

know  I  ought  to  tear  it  up  —  but  I  won't. 

When  you  are  spiritually  worthy  of  me!  Ladd, 
do  you  think  I  can  allow  you  to  say  such  things? 
It  is  when  I  think  of  the  divine  fire  that  has  been 
kindled  from  that  "vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame" 
within  your  house  of  clay  —  oh,  then  I  tremble  at 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

its  consuming  power.  And  even  while  I  smile,  when 
your  words  smile,  my  heart  seems  breaking  at  the 
tears  that  arise  between  the  lines.  Don't  say  it 
again,  Laddie  —  it  is  only  the  thought  of  that  pure 
white  flame  which  holds  me  back;  lest  I  should,  all 
unwittingly,  arrest  the  Master's  work  and  quench 
that  fire  which  I'd  give  my  life  rather  than  destroy. 
It  is  only  that  fear  which  keeps  me  from  writing 
the  words'  "I'm  coming." 

I  mustn  't  go  on  this  way.  If  my  last  letter  caused 
you  to  suffer,  what  will  this  do  ?  and  yet,  I  'm  sending 
it.  Is  Claire  growing  cruel? 

Remember  that  all  your  statements  about  the 
unfairness  of  one  pulling  a  load  meant  for  two,  I 
count  as  naught.  When  the  summons  does  come  — 
and  you  say  it  may  come  sooner  than  I  suspect  — 
I  shall  take  wing  with  the  unerring  instinct  of  a 
homing  pigeon,  straight  for  the  Bear  Paw — and  you. 

That's  all.  The  surgeon  is  finished  for  this  time, 
Laddie,  and  I'm  sorry  to  have  to  probe.  But  do  you 
know,  there  seems  a  greater  Surgeon  in  this  case, 
Who  guides  the  knife ;  and  the  one  who  seems  to  be 
cutting  is  as  wax  in  His  Hands ;  so  count  the  pain  as 
coming  not  from  Claire  —  promise  me  that  —  for, 
left  to  myself,  I  should  plant  a  hedge  of  thornless 
roses  around  the  two  of  us.  Strange  to  say,  though, 
I  can  find  no  thornless  roses  on  the  steep  trail  to  the 
fair  and  far  Countree.  I  think  there  aren't  any. 

We  may  go  to  California  after  this  Lake  sojourn 
is  ended.  Needless  to  say,  no  word  of  mine  will 
hasten  our  departure  ....  for  are  not  the  Bear 

[72} 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

Paw  nearer,  and  the  violet  haze  of  those  shining 
mountains  closer,  and  does  not  the  afterglow  from 
the  vast  northern  prairies  steal  in  some  vague  and  in- 
definable way  into  my  heart,  while  I  am  here? 

Ladd,  I'm  afraid  I'm  growing  moody  —  such  a 
minor  strain  this  letter  takes,  when  it  ought  to  be  all 
brightness,  joy,  and  laughter,  in  anticipation  of  that 
time  which  may  come  "sooner,  perchance,  than  you 
may  suspect. ' '  Delay  is  not  forever ;  and  I  am  happy, 
Ladd,  for  I  know  that  love  like  ours  is  above  the 
accidents  of  time  and  place.  And  in  a  little  while  .  . 

You  know,  Bob  always  says  that  all  things  come 
to  him  who  waits  —  if  he  waits  in  the  right  place. 
So  let's  just  wait !  We'll  take  the  words  over  the  old 
Scotchman's  door  to  ourselves  and  "Bide  a  Wee!" 

My  humble  obeisance  to  the  new  sovereign  of  the 
McDonnell  home,  and,  I  begin  to  suspect,  of  the  heart 
of  Ladd,  too.     I  am  awaiting  a  detailed  account  of 
the  presentation  ceremony.    Hail  to  King  Albert! 
Your  own  Claire. 

July  30,  1918. 

Do  you  remember,  Ladd,  how  you  used  to  say  that 
life  becomes  very  enjoyable,  not  to  say  amusing, 
when  we  look  upon  it  with  what  one  might  call  the 
dramatic  instinct.  One  may  himself  be  the  leading 
actor  and  make  all  the  other  characters  play  up  to 
him,  or  as  you  preferred,  seat  himself  back  some- 
where out  of  the  way  in  a  corner  of  the  gallery, 
"watch  the  show,  and  laugh  at  the  fool  players." 

You  know,  I  never  would  concede  that  the  players 

[73] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

were  usually  "fool  players."  But  of  course  it  is  a 
human  failing  to  find  amusement  in  the  doings  of 
the  Other  Fellow,  and  think  how  much  more  cleverly 
one  could  have  taken  the  part  himself.  That  prob- 
ably accounts,  Laddie,  for  my  preference  for  the 
gallery  corner.  There,  no  one  can  prove  that  I 
couldn't  support  my  assertion. 

I  used  to  be  unreasonable  enough  to  regret  your 
looking  at  things  that  way.  It  was  all  just  a  big 
and  amusing  drama  to  you:  the  Here  and  the  Here- 
after; and  I  shall  never  forget  the  tears  of  utter 
stinging  happiness  I  shed  when,  after  you  first  went 
up  into  the  Shining  Mountain  land  for  story 
material,  the  mystic  beauty  of  the  great  open  spaces 
seemed  to  alter  your  viewpoint,  so  that  one  of  your 
letters  contained  this  observation : 

"The  moon  is  plowing  through  the  fleecy  clouds; 
the  Milk  River  is  flowing  quietly  on  to  the  sea ;  and 
God  is  over  all." 

Probably  you  thought  nothing  of  the  words,  be- 
yond the  mere  fact  that  your  beauty-loving  creature 
had  found  a  certain  satisfaction.  But  to  me,  who 
knew  you  so  well,  it  marked  the  beginning  of  a 
great  change.  Then  you  came  back  to  "civiliza- 
tion" and  for  a  time  I  feared  I  had  been  mistaken. 
You  plunged  with  all  the  well-remembered  ardor  of 
your  being  back  into  the  whirlpool  of  life.  Then 
came  your  illness ;  then  your  exile  to  the  Bear  Paw ; 
and  now,  why  Ladd,  your  soul  is  fairly  beginning 
to  burst  its  bonds.  The  Shining  Mountains  have 
spoken  the  language  of  their  Maker  to  your  heart, 

[74] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

and  in  those  hoary  fastnessess  you  are  finding  your- 
self face  to  face  with  God,  and  I  —  am  afraid. 

This  morning,  before  your  letter  came,  (the  one 
that  brought  back  memories  of  our  evenings  spent 
together  over  "Tom  Brown")  I  was  thinking  of 
your  old  idea  about  the  dramatic  viewpoint  of  life, 
and  I  went  off  by  myself  for  a  little  walk,  before  the 
others  were  stirring. 

The  stage  setting,  at  any  rate,  could  not  have  been 
improved  upon.  There  was  a  crisp,  bubbling  sparkle 
in  the  morning  air,  like  finely  chipped  ice  clinking 
crystal-clear  in  thin  glasses;  there  were  electric 
shocks  of  life,  energy,  and  joy  of  living,  in  every 
breath.  To  the  east,  the  great  sky-curtain  was  be- 
ginning to  glow  with  the  flaming  daily  miracle  that 
men  call  sunrise.  There  was  even  an  overture,  Ladd, 
for  it  seemed  as  if  millions  of  birds  were  bursting 
their  little  throats  in  joyous  rivalry  of  song. 

Their  rippling  notes  sent  the  curtain  rolling  up- 
wards, and  the  miracle  reached  its  culmination  as 
Lake  Superior  turned  into  a  dazzling  ocean  of  car- 
mine and  gold. 

I  gasped  as  the  curtain  rose  —  I  couldn't  help  it. 
Oh,  the  Scene-Painter !  There  was  a  wonder  of 
color,  all  the  brilliance  of  the  sunrise,  merging  in 
the  shadows  into  purple,  deep  green,  sage,  and  gray ; 
and  there  ecstatically  alive,  yet  superbly  calm,  re- 
flecting all  in  its  framing  depths  —  the  Lake. 
Surely,  a  bit  of  Paradise,  a  working  model  of  the 
Green  Pastures  of  God,  of  the  Still  Waters,  beside 
which  he  leadeth  us 

[75] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

Are  you  smiling,  Ladd,  at  my  raptures?  I'd  not 
blame  you  much.  But  you  see,  it  is  your  fault,  for 
the  fancy  was  yours.  When  I  returned,  the  others 
were  having  their  breakfast,  and  many  were  the 
protestations  of  surprise  over  my  unprecedented 
exploit.  Imagine  Claire  getting  up  before  the  sun! 

But,  Ladd,  I  think  that  it  has  cleared  my  vision. 
As  I  stood  there,  alone  with  God,  before  the  wonder 
of  that  sunrise,  I  realized  all  the  things  I  didn't 
understand  when  I  wrote  that  last  letter.  I  shouldn't 
have  sent  it.  ...  Because  now  I  can  see  that,  in  the 
intimate  sense  of  the  Eternal  which  comes  with  the 
contemplation  of  the  works  of  the  Supreme  Scene- 
Painter,  one  is  able  to  see  beyond  the  curtain  even 
before  it  rises  —  on,  on,  oh,  all  the  way  to  Heaven ! 
I  see  it  all  now,  dear,  and  I  am  really  ready  —  recon- 
ciled to  "bide  a  wee." 

After  all,  it  will  not  be  so  long,  even  if  we  should 
have  to  wait  until  the  final  curtain  drops,  and  our 
angels  are  helping  us  to  remove  our  make-up  and 
the  Playwright  is  waiting  to  tell  us  how  the  per- 
formance has  gone.  Oh,  Ladd,  we  can  wait,  if  it 
must  be 

Till  Eternity. 

Your  own  Claire. 

August  2,  1918. 
Ladd,  dear, 

Isn't  it  strange  that  the  things  we  seemed  to  get 
along  so  well  without  yesterday,  when  we  knew 
nothing  about  it,  seems  today  to  be  vitally  necessary 

[76] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

to  our  "life,  liberty,  and  pursuit  of  happiness"? 

I'm  thinking  now  of  the  little  orphan,  Albert  — 
your  own  Tiny  Tim  —  who  has  taken  up  his  reign  in 
the  McDonnell  home,  and  who  seems  inextricably 
woven  into  the  warp  and  woof  of  the  tapestry  of 
your  life.  When  I  read  the  things  you  write  about 
him,  and  the  effect  he  has  upon  you,  I  wonder  if 
he  has  not  been  sent  by  a  Higher  Power  to  help  you 
win  the  "good  fight." 

Just  think,  Ladd,  only  a  few  years  ago,  neither 
you  nor  I  knew  that  the  other  existed  —  and  now, 
there  is  no  thought  of  mine  that  does  not  oegin  and 
end  with  you.  Ah,  the  fatal  circle  again! 

I  just  can't  permit  you  to  malign  yourself  the 
way  you  do,  though.  It  is  my  private  opinion  that  if 
Tiny  Tim  has  really  been  sent  to  help  you  along 
your  rough  road;  you,  none  the  less,  have  been 
appointed  to  pull  him  up  a  "big  little  way." 

You  know  it  isn't  the  slightest  use  to  tell  me  how 
your  example  has  been  a  shock  to  him  —  I  don't 
believe  it.  We  all  make  mistakes  at  times  —  other- 
wise we  wouldn't  be  here  yet,  would  we?  And  if, 
as  you  say,  "children's  eyes  look  up  to  us  on  their 
way  to  God, ' '  you  must  admit  that  in  their  simplicity 
of  purpose,  they  can  discern  the  attempts  at  repara- 
tion on  the  part  of  us  complex  grown-ups  with  a 
clearer  eye  than  similar  grown-ups  would,  and  will 
manifest  the  appreciation  due  such  an  attempt. 

Oh,  Tiny  Tim,  Tiny  Tim,  what  would  a  certain 
young  person  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Superior  not  give 
to  be  in  your  place ! 

[77] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

We  have  overstayed  our  intended  limit  of  time 
here,  by  some  weeks,  lured  by  the  glories  of  the 
great  pine  forest,  and  the  sunrises,  and  the  sun- 
sets, and  the  moonlights  on  the  water;  so  that  it 
seems  as  if  returning  to  the  work-a-day  world  out- 
side is  a  dim  and  undesired  dream.  And  then,  of 
course,  I  have  that  other  reason  for  wanting  to  stay. 
I  have  a  strange  little  feeling  that  the  time  which 
may  come  "sooner,  perchance,  than  you  suspect," 
must  find  me  here,  near  and  ready  to  respond  to 
the  "come." 

It  seems  all  a  dream,  this  waiting,  and  some  day 
we'll  awake  and  find  that  we  have  not  been  waiting 
at  all 

At  Candle-light. 


I've  gone  inside,  and  put  on  my  gray  dress,  so 
that  I  can  look  into  your  future  and  tell  you  what 
the  cricket  meant.  Please,  attend,  as  I  put  on  my 
most  solemn  and  psychic  face  and  disclose  to  you 
the  secrets  of  the  future : 

Things  past,  present,  and  to  come  are  an 

open  book  to  the  Princess  Claire,  seventh  daughter 
of  a  seventh  daughter,  born  on  the  banks  of  the 

mystic  Nile What  would  the  gentleman? 

A  look  into  the  future?  With  a  touch  of  the  past? — 
all  included  in  the  same  price  —  Ah,  there  it  is.  ... 
A  brilliant  career  beginning  ....  a  fine  outlook, 
glowing  hopes.  But  what  is  that?  A  shadow  .... 
a  shadow  of  evil  portent A  whirlpool  into 

[78] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

which  he  is  being  sucked.    A  whirlpool  of  worldly 

distractions But  there  comes  a  little  ray  of 

light    piercing    the    shadow  ....  a    light    shining 

through  the  darkness It  is  a  woman,  who 

bears  a  name  like  light She  comes  into  his 

life  and  brings  happiness  ....  but  not  for  long. 
An  illness  —  the  young  man  is  stricken  in  the  flush 
of  youth.  His  light  that  shone  through  the  darkness 
is  dimmed  by  a  separation  —  a  long  cruel  separa- 
tion. But  the  very  cruelty  of  it  brings  great  things 
to  the  man  ....  things  he  never  could  have  found 
had  it  not  come  ....  an  unveiling  of  the  things 
above.  Another  factor  in  his  life  ....  a  child 
....  a  little  orphan  lad.  Great  good  is  to  come  of 
the  association  ....  the  great  good  to  both 

Meanwhile,  the  light  that  shone  for  him 

through  the  darkness  is  beginning  to  flicker  .... 
it  is  losing  its  identity  in  the  great  white  gleam 
that  is  shining  ever  stronger  and  stronger  through 
the   veil  that  is  being  rent   that  hide's   the   Light 

Eternal The   picture    fades  ....  it   fades 

It is gone! — Fifty    cents, 

please ! 

Laugh,  Ladd,  laugh !  Your  seeress  has  done  better 
to-night  than  ever  before,  has  she  not? 

Goodnight!  Salute  the  monarch  for  me,  and  tell 
him  that  some  one  else  is  kneeling  along  side  of  him 
as  you  and  he  say  your  prayers  at  night  —  only  he 
does  not  see  her. 

Claire. 

[79] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

Sunset  Cottage, 
Bear  Paw  Mts., 

August  12,  1918. 
Darling  Claire, 

There  was  a  rather  heavy  downpour  of  rain  last 
night,  accompanied  with  thunder  and  lightning: 
and  to-day  Tiny  Tim  and  I  wandered  a  short  dis- 
tance up  Beaver  Creek.  The  storm  of  yesterday 
had  cleared  the  atmosphere.  The  wind  swept  down 
from  the  north,  brisk  and  full  of  that  indefinable, 
invigorating  element  so  noticeable  after  a  thunder- 
shower.  Nature  had  renewed  itself  —  every  blade 
of  grass,  every  leaf  seemed  pregnant  with  new  vigor. 
I  also  noticed  two  faint,  red  spots  on  the  pale  cheeks 
of  the  youngster  by  my  side  —  nature  was  busy  too 
renewing  human  life. 

On  our  way  home,  a  wild  canary  lisping  his  ditty 
from  the  top  of  a  pine-tree  claimed  our  attention. 
Quite  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  Albert  drew  a 
sling-shot  from  his  pocket  (I  had  not  known  he  pos- 
sessed one),  and,  before  I  realized  what  had 
happened,  a  helpless  fluttering  of  wings  was  heard, 
and  the  poor  little  creature  fell  dead  at  my  feet. 
Struck  down  in  the  midst  of  his  song. 

Uttering  no  word  of  reprimand,  I  quietly  buried 
him  at  the  foot  of  the  pine-tree  whereon  he  had 

[80] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

warbled  his  last  ray,  and  silently  marked  the  spot 
by  placing  a  stone  over  his  grave. 

During  all  this  time,  Albert  had  stood  motionless 
some  distance  off.  When  all  was  over,  the  little 
fellow  impetuously  threw  the  sling-shot  into  Beaver 
Creek,  hurried  towards  me,  and,  burying  his  face  in 
my  coat,  wept  bitterly.  No  words  of  his  were  neces- 
sary to  inform  me  that  never  again  would  he  use  a 
sling. 

How  often,  Claire,  by  our  rash,  thoughtless  actions 
do  we  silence  life's  songs.  How  often  a  word  of 
criticism,  a  thoughtless  remark,  a  sarcastic  retort 
brings  to  a  premature  close  the  warblings  of  one 
who  otherwise  might  have  held  spellbound  the  hearts 
of  his  fellow  men. 

Ladd. 

August  14, 1918. 
Dearest  Claire, 

There  is  always  something  wistful,  something  ex- 
tremely pathetic  in  the  face  of  an  old  priest  —  some- 
thing that  moves  you  to  tears  in  spite  of  the  gener- 
ous, sweet  smile  that  invariably  lights  up  the  face. 
So  much  goes  on  behind  that  smile,  so  many  battles 
hidden  from  the  world. 

We  are  told  that  soldiers  glory  in  their  wounds 
and  are  proud  of  the  marks  they  have  received ;  yet 
this  old  priest  we  have  with  us  to-day  has  not  only 
kept  his  scars  from  the  eyes  of  the  world,  but  seems 
to  have  convinced  even  himself  that  he  has  never 
been  wounded. 

[81] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

He  looks  so  feeble  and  haggard,  Claire,  that  you 
could  scarcely  imagine  him  walking  two  blocks ;  but 
he  despises  his  wounds  —  he  deliberately  forgets  he 
is  seventy  odd  years  old,  and  tramps  the  prairies  or 
travels  on  horseback  as  though  he  were  a  man  of 
scarcely  forty  summers.  A  pretender?  Yes,  but  of 
such  are  the  kingdom  of  Heaven.  He  is  a  Napoleon 
of  Rome,  a  leader  in  the  army  of  Christ,  a  man 
schooled  to  hardship,  mental  and  physical,  and  whom 
privation  appears  but  to  stimulate  to  renewed  effort. 
I  am  trying  to  study  him  as  he  sits  opposite  me 
(not  in  a  rocker,  for  he  sedulously  avoids  such 
luxuries),  talking  to  Mrs.  McDonnell,  telling  her  of 
the  little  commonplaces  that  have  occurred  at  the 
neighbors,  for  he  visits  them  all,  two  or  three  times 
a  year. 

In  the  subdued  light  from  the  lamp  overhead,  his 
kindly  old  face  seems  actually  to  glow  from  some 
burning  fire  within  the  soul. 

What  gentle  manners !  What  courtly  ways !  — 
and  then  that  smile,  one  can  never  forget  it,  reflecting, 
as  it  does,  the  wonderful  ego  within. 

An  enigma,  you  say?  No,  not  exactly!  Just  a 
simple,  saintly  old  priest;  yet  in  watching  him  one 
recalls  that  there  are  indeed  battles  the  noise  and 
din  of  which  never  reach  us;  that  there  are  hidden 
beneath  the  dancing  waves  of  the  ocean  more  ship- 
wrecks than  those  which  lay  strewn  along  the  sea- 
shore; that  there  are  griefs  which  hang  no  crepe 
on  the  door,  close  no  shutters,  drop  no  tears,  but 

[82] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

modestly  retire  behind  a  smile  —  the  smile  of  those 
who  have  learnt  that  "he  who  loses  himself  for 
Christ 's  sake  shall  find  himself. ' ' 

That,  in  last  analysis,  is  the  cause  of  this  man's 
strong  appeal  to  me.  He  is  one  who  has  conquered 
self  first,  then  outside  obstacles.  And  that  is  why 
those  old  fairy  tales  won  our  hearts  when  we  were 
young  —  they  are  true  to  nature.  Each  one  of  us, 
if  we  wish  to  keep  our  ideals,  must,  like  Jack,  go 
forth  and  conquer  the  Giant;  each  one  of  us  must 
have  his  Camelot  —  must  ride  out  and  rid  the  land 
of  all  invaders 

I  could  spend  a  very  profitable  evening,  Claire, 
speculating  on  the  life  of  Father  Cruer,  opposite, 
but  —  there's  always  a  "but"  in  this  life,  a  little 
fly  in  the  ointment,  no  joy  is  ever  unalloyed  —  well, 
my  speculation  came  to  a  sudden  stop  as  I  remember 
my  resolve  made  the  night  of  the  "Tom  Brown" 
incident,  and  reflect  that  I  have  now  an  opportunity 
to  keep  my  word  and  return  to  my  Father's  House. 

And  Claire, I  intend  to  make  use  of  this 

occasion. 

Nevertheless,  one  is  never  exactly  at  ease  before 
an  operation,  no  matter  what  confidence  he  may  have 

in  the  ability  of  the  surgeon.    So Claire! 

do  not  forget  to  pray  for  me. 

I'm  going  out  now  for  a  half  hour  or  more  to 
think  over  a  number  of  unpleasant  things  in  my 
past  life. 

Ladd. 

[83] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

August  16,  1918. 

On  memory's  wall  hang  many  pictures.  Some  are 
dim  with  the  dust  of  years,  faded,  and  scarcely 
recognizable.  Others  do  not  appear  to  be  touched  by 
time  at  all, — they  keep  their  colors,  they  remain  vivid 
and  startlingly  clear  even  to  the  end  of  our  days. 

I  'm  persuaded  that  the  events  of  yesterday  will  be 
finally  relegated  to  the  latter  class :  —  years  will 
never  entirely  deprive  me  of  them. 

Not  that  these  happenings  were  unusual,  not  be- 
cause of  any  gorgeousness  in  the  settings  that  sur- 
rounded them  —  no,  there  was  an  utter  lack  of 
splendor,  absolutely  nothing  to  attract  one  exter- 
nally. And  yet  —  yet  that  bare,  clean,  attic  room, 
the  quaint  old  priest  in  his  robes  of  white,  the  two 
wax  candles  adding  to  the  supernatural  glow  of  his 
countenance,  the  wrapt  devotion  of  the  worshipers, 
the  hallowed  peace,  so  powerful  that  it  even  seemed 
a  tangible  thing  —  these  will  haunt  my  soul  when 
sun  and  moon  have  burnt  to  darkness. 

I'm  told  that  converts  narrate  the  great  joy,  the 
great  happiness  they  experience  on  the  day  of  their 
reception  into  the  true  Fold.  In  the  case  of  the 
"pilgrim"  -the  prodigal  returned,  there  was  peace 
and  contentment  too;  and  still  he  was  conscious  of 
but  one  overpowering  emotion  —  regret.  Kegret 
that  he  had  superciliously  rejected  and  cast  from  him 
a  precious  Gift,  one  that  would  have  made  his  life  so 
much  lighter,  so  much  sweeter,  so  much  nobler. 

In   a  lesser   degree,   I  fancy   every  fair-minded 

[84] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

Protestant  experiences  at  times  something  akin  to 
this  withering  blight,  and  sighs  for  the  olden  days 
when  the  world  was  one,  big  religious  family,  when 
discord  and  schism  were  as  yet  unknown.  Never 
would  they  outwardly  admit  any  such  leaning 
towards  the  old  Church,  yet  almost  unconsciously  it 
escapes  them.  Thackeray's  utterance  in  the  New- 
comes  is  (to  me)  typical  of  the  attitude  of  many  a 
well-meaning  man  of  to-day. 

"There  must  be  moments,  in  Rome  especially, 
when  every  man  of  friendly  heart,  who  writes  him- 
self English  and  Protestant,  must  feel  a  pang  at 
thinking  that  he  and  his  countrymen  are  insulated 
from  European  Christendom Of  the  beauti- 
ful parts  of  the  great  Mother  Church  I  believe  among 
us  many  people  have  no  idea " 

Who  of  us  —  no  matter  what  he  be  —  can  deliber- 
ately turn  away  from  the  central  point  of  Chris- 
tianity —  can  shut  out  the  sunshine  from  his  heart, 
and  not  be  punished  by  the  darkness  and  cold  that 
inevitably  follow  f 

Regret,  regret,  and,  in  my  case,  Claire, 

regret  intensified  by  the  realization  that  I  volun- 
tarily wandered  away,  yet  softened  withal,  now  that 
I  am  back,  by  the  sunshine,  the  new-found  delights 
of  Home,  as  contrasted  with  the  barren  wastes  and 
utter  aridity  of  the  "far  country." 

So  the  day  was  a  memorable  one — and  the  evening 
no  less  so ;  for  I  enjoyed  one  of  those  soul-satisfying 
prostrating  sick-spells  which  I  seem  unable  to  avoid. 

I  say  "enjoyed"  because  it  was  a  pleasure  to  suffer 

[85] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

something  for  the  sake  of  the  past,  —  more  happi- 
ness than  I  ever  dreamed  it  could  be. 

And  then  my  friends  were  all  so  kind  and  sym- 
pathetic. Mrs.  McDonnell  wore  herself  out  in  minis- 
tering to  me ;  Albert  stole  in  to  see  if  I  desired  any- 
thing, and,  on  my  replying  in  the  negative,  mutely 
put  his  arm  about  my  neck  in  token  of  sympathy  and 
comradeship ;  while  on  towards  midnight,  John  made 
a  very  unsuccessful  attempt  to  tip-toe  to  my  bed  — 
he's  too  big-hearted  and  clumsy  ever  to  be  a  favorite 
in  a  drawing  room  —  and,  in  his  gruff,  kind  way 
said :  "Here's  a  letter,  Ladd ;  one  of  the  men  brought 
it  in  this  evening." 

It  was  from  you,  Claire.  The  thought  of  the  many 
favors  I  had  just  been  receiving,  added  to  the 
epistolary  testimony  that  my  pal  had  not  forgotten 
me,  overcame  me  and This  brought  me  re- 
lief and  after  a  while  I  fell  into  a  refreshing  slumber. 

I'll  not  tell  you  any  more,  except  that  the  day  is 
a  glorious  one,  full  of  sunshine  and  gladness;  and, 
0,  Claire,  it  maybe  trite,  but  I'm  happy  to  be  alive! 

Lovingly, 
Ladd. 


[86] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

August  18,  1918. 
Ladd,  dearest, 

"The  face  of  an  old  priest!"  Surely,  you  know 
how  I  agree  with  you  about  its  wistfulness,  its  pathos, 
its  sanctity.  But,  Ladd,  can  you  imagine  the  joy  of 
hearing  you  say  it? 

I  read  your  letter  all  through  —  twice  —  before  the 
realization  of  what  it  really  meant  came  upon  me. 
I've  been  expecting  something  of  the  sort,  you  know, 
and  yet  I  had  not  dared  hope  that  it  was  to  come  so 
soon.  After  I  had  finished  reading,  I  sat  for 
a  moment  looking  out  into  the  heart  of  the  sunset, 
and  then,  Ladd,  you  think  I  wept  for  joy!  No! 
This  joy  was  too  exultant,  too  bounding  for  tears. 
The  thing  I  really  did  was  to  fling  on  my  gray  cloak 
and  my  black  beaver  hat,  and  astonish  the  rest  by 
darting  out,  with  the  information  that  I'd  not  be 
back  till  dark.  Then  I  made  straight  for  a  tiny 
chapel  that  stands  in  the  midst  of  a  little  clearing 
in  the  wood  (I  don't  know  that  I've  told  you  of  it.  It 
is  served  by  a  decrepit,  old,  French-Canadian  priest). 
Once  there  I  permitted  the  ecstacy  of  my  soul  to 
spend  itself  in  union  with  the  joy  of  our  Lord  in  the 

tabernacle For,  Laddie,  I  can  imagine  the 

joy  of  the  angels  in  heaven,  this  night ! 

Long  before  this  letter  reaches  you,  your  Home- 

[87] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

coming  will  have  been  completed,  and  you  will  be 
experiencing  the  happiness  of  resting  quietly  in  the 
blessed  old  Faith.  I  could  not  help  thinking  how 
you  said,  not  long  ago,  that  children's  eyes  look  up 
to  us  on  the -way  to  God.  Now,  you  know  how  it 
feels  since  as  a  little  child,  you  have  looked  up  into 
the  serene  face  of  that  old  priest,  on  your  way  to 
God. 

I  can't  believe  it!  Ladd  has  returned  to  his 
Father's  house !  Ladd  has  gone  to  confession !  Ladd, 
all  shriven,  and  tried  in  the  white  hot  flame  of 
mental,  physical,  and  spiritual  suffering,  has  not  been 
found  wanting! 

There  in  the  dim  quiet  little  chapel  in  the  heart  of 
the  great  north  woods,  I  knew  that  I  did  not  deserve 
such  happiness.  The  little  light  of  the  sanctuary, 
danced  and  flickered  across  the  altar,  and  sent  its 
glow  over  the  same  Presence  that  welcomed  my 

Laddie  home One  faith,  one  baptism 

one  God  and  Father  of  all 

It  was  more  than  nightfall  when  I  returned,  and 
the  family  "as  one  man"  was  beginning  to  look  a 
bit  wrinkled  about  the  forehead,  but  as  Bob  said, 
when  one  worries  about  a  truant,  and  then  when  she 
turns  up  as  good  as  new,  the  prevailing  sentiment  is 
to  give  her  a  genuine  old-fashioned  spanking.  His 
eyes  twinkled,  though,  as  he  said  it,  and  afterwards 
very  carelessly,  he  inquired  what  I  had  heard  from 
Ladd  these  days.  I  told  them  the  things  they  wanted 
to  know,  and  left  untold  the  great  big  happening  that 
has  made  life,  death,  and  the  grand  forever,  a  diff- 

[88] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

erent  thing  from  what  it  seemed  for  us  a  few  short 
weeks  ago. 

Ladd,  isn  't  it  strange  that  the  sorrow  of  our  separ- 
ation has  been  made  less  to  me  now  that  we  are  so 
much  the  more  intimately  bound  together  with  a  tie 
that  men  can 't  see  ?  That  is  certainly  as  it  should  be 
—  though  things  usually  don't  turn  out  just  as  we 
fancy  they  should  be.  This  case  is  an  exception. 

It's  night,  and  the  lake  is  breathing  in  g!reat 
swelling  gasps,  and  the  pines  are  talking  excitedly 
among  themselves,  and  everything  seems  strangely 
stirred  up  as  if  something  great  had  happened  — 

and  you  and  I  know  what  it  is You  and  I  and 

Some  One,  who  is  enthroned  in  a  rude  frame  struc- 
ture in  a  clearing  of  the  wood,  where  a  lamp  like 
a  living  ruby  burns  out  its  little  life  in  uninterrupted 
companionship  with  the  Master  of  the  House.  There 
is  peace,  and  serenity,  and  joy  that  knows  no  end  — 
for  the  son  who  was  lost  has  returned. 

I  wept  a  little  over  the  bird  struck  down  in  the 
midst  of  his  song  —  and  I  wanted  to  spank  your 
wretched  Tiny  Tim.  Then  I  happened  to  think  of 
the  grief  of  his  own  young  heart  when  he  realized  the 
enormity  of  his  offense,  and  saw  the  grave  dis- 
approval in  his  idol's  eyes and  the  first  thing 

I  knew,  I  was  crying  for  Tiny  Tim. 

We  are  leaving  here  surely  next  week  —  Bob  must 
be  off,  and  so  must  all  the  rest  of  us,  on  various 

quests My  own?  Well,  just  now,  I  am 

waiting I  wonder  what  I'm  waiting  for? 

I'll  write  again  and  tell  you  about  it  all. 

[89] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

You  ask  me  to  pray  for  you.     If  I  hadn't  been 
doing  that  all  the  time,  Laddie  mine,  where  do  you 
think  you'd  be  now?     There,  I  knew  that  would 
drop  you  back  to  earth.    This  letter  sounds  a  bit  as 
if  I  were  growing  heavenly,  and  I  hate  to  have  you 
laboring  under  a  delusion.    I'm  just  happy! 
Your  sean'lously  conceited 
Claire. 

August  20,  1918. 

Oh,  Laddie,  were  you  ever  on  a  high  peak,  with 
space  in  front  of  you,  and  space  on  the  sides  of  you, 
and  space  in  the  back  of  you;  when  the  friendliest 
place  in  the  universe  seemed  the  little  point  of 
earth  whereon  you  stood?  I'll  admit  I  haven't 
been  in  such  a  predicament  myself,  but  I  can  well 
sympathize  with  the  sensations  of  a  mountain 
climber  in  such  a  case  ....  because,  I  don't  want 
to  leave  this  place.  Here  I  am,  with  heaven  above 
me,  and  the  only  real  objective  point  of  my  desires 
a  place  in  the  Bear  Paw  Mountains  that  wouldn't 
be  so  hard  to  reach  from  here  —  and  all  else  in  space ! 

Bob  is  leaving  soon  for  New  York,  and  Elizabeth 
and  Alice  are  accompanying  him.  The  girls  intend 
to  do  war-work,  and  ....  Well,  the  logical  thing 
for  me  to  do  is  —  likewise.  I've  made  inquiries 
about  my  entry  into  one  of  the  hospitals  to 
train,  and  find  that  it  will  be  a  matter  of 
six  months  or  a  year  more,  before  I  could  hope  to 
complete  any  kind  of  course.  That  would  seem  to 

[90] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

indicate  that  another  kind  of  work  ought  to  be  mine. 
So,  I  suppose  the  best  thing  for  me  would  be  to  re- 
turn with  Alice  and  Elizabeth.  But  the  magic  of  the 
north  woods  has  cast  a  spell  upon  me,  which  the 
"Lavender  lamps  of  the  avenue"  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  old  lure  of  old  Manhattan  seem  powerless  to 
break. 

The  other  possibility  for  me  is  California  —  two 
more  remote  points  from  your  Bear  Paw  would  be 
hard  to  fancy.  A  few  days  more  and  the  decision 
must  be  made,  and  still  I  wait 

I've  just  been  reading  your  letter  —  the  one  telling 
of  the  picture  which  is  to  hang  on  the  wall  of  your 
memory  vivid  and  clear  forever.  You  make  it  so 
real  for  me,  too,  that  I  think  I  can  see  it  even  as  you 
did  —  the  Upper  Chamber,  and  the  glorious  things 
that  came  to  you  in  it,  the  old  priest,  the  white  vest- 
ments, the  wax  candles,  and  the  kneeling  ones  who 
love. 

But  regret?  Yes,  that's  natural,  I  suppose;  and 
still  if  you  had  not  the  contrast  to  serve  as  a  back- 
ground, would  your  present  happiness  shine  so 
brightly  as  it  does?  For,  "Only  the  darkness  brings 
out  the  stars,"  and  the  star  that  is  shining  for  you 
now  is  the  biggest  and  the  brightest  that  has  ever 
lit  up  your  life,  isn't  it? 

But  the  news  that  you  are  ill!  Oh,  that  is  the 
thought  that  makes  me  wonder  if  I  am  right  in 
acquiescing  so  mildly  to  your  dictum,  you  tyrant! 
I  wonder  if  for  me  the  reproach  of  the  immortal 
bard,  has  not  a  deeper  message : 

[91] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

"Our  doubts  our  traitors  are 

That  make  us  lose  the  good  we  oft  might  win 

By  fearing  to  attempt." 

I  know  that  your  dear  McDonnells  and  the  youth- 
ful Albert  are  kindness  itself,  but  why  should  they, 
who  have  so  much  beside,  have  also  you? 

Later  —  the  same  night. 

As  I  was  writing,  this  afternoon,  Bob  came  in  with 
the  news  that  we  are  to  go  off  up  the  shore  for  a 
sunset  picnic,  so  I  had  to  declare  a  recess  in  my 
letter-writing.  The  blessed  boy  must  have  seen  that 
I  was  looking  a  bit  droopy  as  to  feathers,  because 
after  whistling  in  that  absurd  little  way  of  his  for  a 
few  moments,  he  blurted  out : 

"If  you  were  thinking  of  going  out  to  California, 
why  don't  you  go  across  the  States  up  north  here, 
and  drop  off  and  say  hello  to  Ladd?" 

I  didn't  answer  him;  how  could  I? But 

the  idea  is  attractive Is  there,  after  all,  any 

law  to  prevent  any  young  woman  of  sound  mind, 
from  traveling  across  the  continent  by  any  route  she 

might  please?     Tell  me  Ladd,  is  there? I'd 

like  to  see  a  North  Dakota  twilight  again,  ....  It 
is  so  enchanting,  all  that  space,  and  so  much  clear 
air,  and  occasionally,  or  oftener,  a  tepee  in  the  dis- 
tance with  a  camp-fire  near  it  —  just  like  Indian 
heaven ! 

Well,  laugh  if  you  must,  Laddie Of  course 

I  suppose  I  can't  make  a  trip  out  to  the  McDonnell's 
ranch  in  the  Bear  Paw,  without  an  invitation  and  a 
method  of  getting  there And  I'm  not  think- 

[92] 


FROM  CLAIRE  TO  LADDIE 

ing  even  remotely  of  hinting  for  such.  Still,  as  Bob 
says,  "Anyhow,  let's  be  cheerful  —  oh,  aggressively 
cheerful  —  and  look  at  the  funny,  if  we  can 't  look 
at  the  sunny  side  of  things!" 

Bob  isn't  far  wrong  in  his  advice,  is  he?  And  still, 
Ladd,  I  think  you  manage  to  look  at  the  sunny  side, 
too. 

Five  more  days  must  see  me  starting  for  some 
other  spot  of  the  globe;  just  what  spot,  depends  a 
little  bit  upon  you.  Anyway,  I'll  not  leave  here 
until  I  find  out  what  you  have  to  say.  I  know  the 
Lake  is  going  to  miss  me,  and  the  woods,  and  the 
sunsets,  and  the  moonlights,  and  the  little  chapel  in 
the  clearing.  But  partings  are  the  one  variety  of 
human  experience  that  falls  to  the  lot  of  every  one 
of  us.  How  could  they  be  expected  to  avoid  Ladd 
and 

Claire? 


[93] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIEE 

At  Eden, 

Bear  Paw  Mts., 

September  3,  1918. 
Dearest, 

Albert  is  experiencing  his  first  real  sorrow.  He 
has  just  been  told  that  in  a  few  short  days  school 
will  begin.  Naturally  he  is  rebellious,  at  least  in- 
teriorly. Does  not  school  mean  partial  separation 
at  least  from  his  companion,  Ladd,  and  from  those 
luring,  shady  walks  through  the  pines  on  the  up- 
lands? The  lessons  of  the  great,  wild  outdoors  are 
more  real  to  him  and  more  acceptable  than  all  the 
book-lore  of  ages. 

Being  young,  he  hates  to  surrender,  and  would 
rather  follow  the  example  of  Daffy-Down-Dilly,  and 
escape  from  pedagogical  slavery  and  that  hard  old 
schoolmaster,  Mr.  Toil.  But  such  is  the  law.  'Tis 
useless,  Albert,  to  kick  against  the  goad.  Follow 
the  Brahmins.  Deck  yourself  out  with  school-books 
(if  flowers  cannot  be  had),  and  march  gaily  to  the 
sacrifice.  Meet  that  stern  old  taskmaster,  Toil,  un- 
flinchingly. Look  him  straight  in  the  eyes;  he's 
rather  a  good  sort  of  fellow  when  all  is  told. 

And  Albert  —  this  may  make  the  pill  less  bitter — 
I'll  take  you  for  a  long,  long  ramble  to-morrow. 

[94] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

So  in  a  few  days,  Claire,  the  leaves  will  begin  to 
turn  in  school  for  Albert.  Would  you  believe  it? — 
they  are  already  turning  on  the  mountainside.  I 
am  sure  some  herald  from  the  court  of  the  great  king, 
Autumn,  has  been  along  this  way;  for  nature  is 
decking  herself  in  gala  attire  in  anticipation  of  his 
coming. 

Oh,  the  colors,  Claire!  —  russet  and  red  and 
yellow  and  mauve.  It's  rather  sad  to  see  the  leaves 
put  on  their  gayest  garments  just  before  death. 
Why  this  useless  waste  ?  —  "  ut  quid  perditio  haec  ? ' ' 

And  yet  is  it  all  really  spent  for  naught?  I  like 
to  fancy  that  even  here  the  Divine  Painter  is  con- 
veying a  lesson  to  us.  He  desires  us  to  follow 
nature's  viewpoint, — to  despise  death,  to  rejoice  and 
be  glad  at  its  coming.  Why,  Claire,  every  tiny  leaf 
scattered  on  the  ground  in  death  seems,  paradoxi- 
cally enough,  pregnant  with  life.  It  lies  there  full 
of  expectation —  like  a  bride  awaiting  the  bride- 
groom. 

Even  burn  them,  and  the  smoke  of  Autumn  leaves 
ascends  to  heaven  alluringly.  It  vanishes  in  the  air ; 
but,  like  the  sun,  it  has  disappeared  with  the  promise 
of  a  morrow. 

So  must  we  gladly  meet  the  grim  Reaper  who 
opens  the  gate  to  our  Home  beyond.  Eh,  Claire? 

But  you  must  not  fancy  the  woods  hold  a  monopoly 
on  color. 

The  sunsets  at  this  time  of  year  just  beggar  de 
scription,  —  they  are  gorgeous  riots  of  purple,  red, 
and  gold.    Was  it  not  Coleridge  who  used  cloudland 

[95] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

and  gorgeous  land  as  synonyms?  It  is  a  very 
true  characterization,  for  there  is  always  an  element 
of  grandeur  and  bigness  in  the  clouds,  and  especially 
is  this  true  when  they  enshrine  an  orange-red  sun. 

Then  the  dusk,  deep  lavender  and  heliotrope !  But, 
0,  Claire,  the  solemn  witchery  of  these  western 
nights !  A  sapphire  background,  a  clear  bright  moon 
of  the  harvest  time,  and  the  star-diamonds  so  close 
that  one  imagines  he  can  reach  out  and  pluck  them. 

Of  course,  this  feeling  of  the  heavens  being  nearer 
on  these  September  nights  is  without  foundation, 
entirely  subjective.  And  yet,  in  a  spiritual  sense 
there  is  considerable  truth  in  it.  If  the  heavens 
have  not  reached  down  towards  me :  I,  nevertheless 
(let  me  say  it  in  all  humility),  have  soared  from 
earth  since  my  coming  out  West.  I  am  once  more  at 
Home  —  once  more  in  Arcady,  Claire  —  in  Eden  — 
Eden  before  the  fall. 

Sometime  or  other,  in  every  life,  there  is  enacted 
the  balcony  scene.  The  lovely  night  when  the  aspect 
of  heaven  and  earth  seems  to  breathe  peace  and 
tranquillity;  the  gentle  zephyr  wooing  caressingly 
the  groves  and  carrying  off  the  fragrance  of  flowers 
as  trophies  of  his  love ;  Diana  with  her  company  of 
twinkling  stars  looking  down  with  a  soft  luster  upon 
a  world  where  so  many  frenzied  passions  and  war- 
ring interests  are  lulled  in  repose ;  the  deep  blue  of  a 
cloudless,  ever-arching  sky;  and  then  —  then  the 
serenade,  the  whispered  words,  the  plighted  troth 
of  Darby  and  Joan.  Yes,  sometime  or  other  we  all 
enjoy  the  balcony  scene.  Only  in  my  case,  owing  to 

[96] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

the  prayers  of  Claire,  it's  the  Divine  Lover  Who 
deigns  to  visit  me. 

Such  peace  and  soul-content !  I  would  not  change 
my  damaged  lung  for  all  the  health  and  all  the 
wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind.  "I  have  found  Him 
Whom  my  soul  loveth;  I  held  Him  and  will  not  let 
Him  go." 

Let  me  furthermore  gratefully  state  —  'tis  always 
well  to  pay  my  debts,  to  render  thanks  to  those  who 
have  loved  me  while  time  is  yet  at  my  disposal  —  let 
me  state  that,  if  anything  will  serve  to  make  the 
bond  that  binds  us  'more  enduring,  it  will  be  the 
realization  on  my  part  of  the  spiritual  indebtedness 
I  owe  you. 

I  spoke  of  paying  my  debts  a  while  ago.  In  this 
case  I  am  deeply  obliged  to  you  for  placing  me  under 
an  obligation  that  never  in  this  wide  world  shall  I 
be  able  to  wipe  out.  For  me  this  thought  holds  a 
peculiar  pleasure,  Claire.  I  fancy  too  that  the  re- 
membrance of  the  major  part  you  played  in  the 
Great  Reconciliation,  and  of  the  minor,  passive  role 
I  assumed,  will  forever  keep  far  from  me  all  prompt- 
ings to  pride  and  vanity.  It  will  make  me  more  and 
more  diffident  of  self;  and  more  and  more  trustful 
in  the  goodness  of  God,  and  more  and  more  grateful 
towards  a  certain  little  angel  in  human  form  whom 
God  sent  to  my  assistance. 

May  she  always  continue  to  help  and  guide  me  is 
the  prayer  of  the  Publican. 

Ladd. 

[97] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

P.  S.  Early  to  bed  for  me  to-night,  Claire. 
Nurse's  orders;  since  Albert  and  Ladd  must  be  on 
their  way  through  the  pine  groves  at  sunrise.  I 
want  it  to  be  a  memorable  day  for  the  boy  in  view 
of  the  long  hours  of  class  that  face  him  in  the  near 
future. 

Sunset  Cottage, 
Bear  Paw  Mts., 
(Via  Havre), 

September  4,  1918. 

To  Miss  Claire  —     — , 
c/o  The  Pines, 
Le  Pere  P.  0., 
Wisconsin. 

Come.    Ladd  needs  you. 

Mrs.  J.  McDonnell. 

September  4, 1918. 
Dearest  Claire, 

I  must  be  brief  to-night  as  Mrs.  McDonnell  may 
return  at  any  moment  and  discover  me  scribbling. 

Our  little  outing  was  indeed  a  memorable  one, 
yet  not  in  the  sense  I  wished  it  to  be.  I'm  now  in 
bed.  The  doctor  was  here  not  long  since  and  set  my 
leg;  while  Nurse  just  left  me  after  anointing  my 
chest  and  strapping  me  with  cotton  and  adhesive. 
She  appears  rather  concerned  about  my  chest,  though 
I  tell  her  that  my  leg  is,  at  present,  the  most  prolific 
source  of  pain. 

[98] 


FROM  LADDIE  TO  CLAIRE 

Please  do  not  scold,  Claire !  I  am  sure  you  would 
not  have  wished  me  to  act  otherwise  than  I  did. 

It  all  happened  suddenly.  Even  now  the  whole 
affair  haunts  me  as  something  unreal  —  I  scarcely 
can  convince  myself  that  it  actually  happened. 

We  left  Sunset  Cottage  quite  early,  and,  after 
following  Beaver  Creek  for  some  five  miles  (in  easy 
stages  because  of  Albert's  poor  leg),  came  upon  a 
fallen  tree  that  spanned  the  stream  at  this  point. 
We  determined  on  attempting  a  crossing.  Albert 
led  the  way 

The  pain  in  my  leg  is  all  but  unbearable !  Well  —  I 
broke  my  leg  in  carrying  Albert  from  the  creek,  but 
managed  somehow  to  reach  the  bank.  The  little 
fellow  was  then  obliged  to  limp  home  and  announce 
the  disaster.  Naturally  I  became  quite  chilled  while 
waiting  in  my  wet  clothes  for  help.  It  was  late 
in  the  afternoon  before  John  and  the  hired  man 
reached  Sunset  Cottage  with  Ladd  on  their  shoulders. 
Good  night,  Claire ! 
Ladd. 

September  6,  1918. 
Claire, 

It's  pneumonia.  Nurse  just  told  me  of  the  tele- 
gram she  sent  you.  It  is  worth  a  broken  leg  and  a 
dozen  other  complications  to  see  your  face  once 
more.  Don't  worry. 

Ladd. 

[99] 


At  McDonnell's  in  the  Bear  Paw 

My  dear  Mr.  Dorley, 

I  am  taking  the  first  opportunity  to  give  you  the 
details  of  my  last  meeting  with  him  we  both  loved 
so  well.  You  have  already  received  my  message 
telling  you  that  the  "unexpected  expected"  has 
come  to  pass,  and  that  Ladd  is  dead. 

It  would  be  hard  to  write  calmly  to  any  one  but 
you,  who  can  understand  the  answer  to  the  agonized 
"why?"  that  is  wrung  from  our  hearts.  Why,  oh 
why  ?  And  yet  to  Ladd  the  answer  was  plain  .... 
so  it  must  become  to  the  rest  of  us.  Those  who  do 
not  know  will  mourn  him  with  an  unreasoning  grief, 
and  will  rebel  against  the  "inexorable  fate"  that 
cut  him  off  in  the  flower  of  his  youth.  But  we,  who 
have  learned  something  of  the  lesson  of  life  and  a 
tiny  bit  of  the  lesson  of  death,  will  realize  that  his 
work  was  done,  his  life  was  lived  on  earth,  and  that 
from  the  only  point  of  view  worth  holding,  his  life 
was  a  glorious  success. 

The  afternoon  of  my  arrival,  I  went  in  to  see  Ladd 

at  once Can  it  be  just  three  days  ago?  .  .  . 

A  sunny  flash  crossed  his  face  at  sight  of  me,  but  I 
knew  from  that  moment  that  his  smile  was  soon  to  be 
forever  dimmed  to  earth.  We  had  a  precious  hour 

[100] 


CLAIRE  TO  LADD'S  FRIEND 

together  before  the  priest  came,  and  he  gave  me  some 
messages  for  you.  We  did  not  talk  of  many  things 
for  that  hour  was  full  of  a  sense  of  breathless  antici- 
pation of  the  joys  to  come.  I  knew,  too,  that  though 
his  love  for  me  was,  if  possible,  deeper  than  ever 
before,  the  one  he  had  been  fond  of  calling  his 
"light  shining  through  the  darkness"  had  lost  her 
brilliance  in  the  far-off  radiance  of  the  Light 
Eternal. 

That  talk  ended  quite  naturally.  Somehow  it 
seemed  as  if  everything  had  been  said,  and  just  at 
that  moment  the  priest  arrived  —  the  good  old  priest 
of  whom  he  had  written  to  me  at  the  time  of  his 
return  to  the  Church.  Then  it  was  that  the  charm  of 
Ladd's  life  seemed  to  reach  its  summit.  His  smiling 
acceptance  of  pain  and  death  robbed  the  trial  of 
half  its  sting  to  those  around  him,  and  not  for  one 
instant  did  the  gentle  courtesy  that  was  always  his 
relax.  Safe  within  the  Fold  that  had  sheltered  him 
in  childhood,  he  went  out  smiling  into  the  Vast 
Forever  upheld  by  the  tender  love  of  the  Good 
Shepherd 

Mrs.  McDonnell  is  so  good.  She  tells  me  the 
things  she  thinks  I  want  to  hear.  Dear  little  Albert 
— of  whom  Ladd  has  told  you  —  is  my  shadow.  They 
loved  him  so,  just  as  did  all  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact.  I  promised  Ladd  that  I  should  always  try 

to  keep  in  touch  with  Albert you  see,  even 

in  his  last  hours  his  thoughts  were  for  those  he  loved. 
I  can  tell  you  of  everything  more  in  detail  when  I 
see  you. 

[101] 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

In  a  day  or  two  I  am  going  back  into  the  world 
that  has  lost  him.  I  should  prefer  staying  here,  but 
I  must  go  if  only  to  carry  my  ain  Laddie's  message 
to  the  friends  who  need  him. 

Cordially  your  friend, 
Claire. 

Afterwards 

In  the  empty  silent  Bear  Paw  Mts. 

Laddie, 

I've  just  written  to  David  Dorley,  as  you  wanted 
me  to,  and  I  told  him  the  things  you  would  want 
me  to  say.  He  has  the  details,  the  story  of  how 
your  glad  brave  soul  went  out  to  meet  its  Maker, 
and  a  little  of  the  knowledge  of  the  undying  friend- 
ship you  held  for  him. 

But  now,  my  ain  Laddie,  just  a  few  moments 
must  be  spent  with  you  alone.  If  this  were  a  week 
ago,  I'd  be  writing  to  you,  picturing  you  on  the  side 
porch  of  McDonnell's,  smoking  a  Pall  Mall,  or  ramb- 
ling with  Albert  over  the  hills,  and  maybe  thinking 
of  that  day  when  you  would  send  for  me  to  come. 

That  day  came.  I  am  here  ....  and  you  are 
not.  My  mind  can  not  take  it  in,  Ladd,  for  you  are 
so  near  to  me  that  it  seems  as  if  I  might  look  up  at 
any  moment  and  see  you  looking  at  me  with  the 

dear,  half-teasing  smile  on  your  lips and 

then  I  remember  that  through  all  the  days  of  my  life 
I  can  never  look  up  and  see  you. 

[102] 


CLAIRE  TO  LADD'S  FRIEND 

But  I  must  write  to  you,  just  this  once  as  if  you 
were  still  here.  And  even  though  this  great  wide 
world  no  longer  contains  you,  I  dare  hope  that  you 
know.  Is  the  gulf  between  Time  and  Eternity  so 
black  that  you  can  no  longer  see  me?  Are  the 
things  I  do  no  longer  known  by  you?  Or  is  Claire 
still  a  light  shining  through  the  darkness  between 
us,  shining  for  you  still,  though  the  Light  of 
Eternity  now  be  yours? 

I  must  stop  quickly,  Laddie  mine!  ....  Albert 
just  came  in  with  something  he  had  found  of  yours 

that  he  thought  would  comfort  me .it  was 

an  unopened  box  of  Pall  Malls!  The  things  that 
you  had,  that  you  touched,  even  the  splendid  body 
you  lived  in,  are  no  longer  necessary  to  you  —  even 

Claire,  save  as  she  can  reach  your  brave  spirit 

The    sight    of    the    Pall    Malls    has    restored    my 

equilibrium I  have  strength  now,  and  I  will 

go  to-morrow  and  take  your  message  to  those  who 
mourn  you.  And  I  can  do  it,  because  I  know  that 
you  are  waiting  for  me  beyond  the  star  dust  and  the 
stars. 

Claire. 

By  the  banks  of  Beaver  Creek 

It  rained  last  night  —  a  soft,  silent  shower, 
dampening  a  new-made  grave;  yet,  strangely 
enough,  refreshing  the  little  nosegay  of  wild  flowers 
Albert  had  placed  on  it.  Was  this  heaven's  way  of 
bestowing  its  meed  of  sorrow  on  the  dear  departed 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

> 

one,  and,  at  the  same  time,  of  indicating  that  the 
youngster  should  obtain  courage  and  renewed  vigor 
for  the  battles  of  life  in  the  example  and  heroic 
death  of  his  friend  ? 

Indeed  I  hope  Ladd  's  life  will  be  an  inspiration  to 
the  boy,  and  Ladd's  prayers  guard  the  little  ''king" 
in  the  days  to  come 

It  rained  last  night;  the  weather  is  still  cloudy; 
and  there  is  mist  also  in  my  heart.  Oh,  Ladd !  Ladd ! 
why  did  you  leave  me  just  when  the  better  days 
were  dawning  —  when  strength  had  been  restored 
to  you!  Why  were  you  taken  before  you  obtained 
your  heart's  desire  of  succeeding  in  the  chosen 
realm  of  literature ! 

Cease.  Such  a  complaint  is  not  only  useless  but 
untrue.  Ladd  did  succeed,  though  he  did  not  obtain 
what  many  confuse  with  success  —  worldly  recogni- 
tion. 

The  little  stream  by  which  he  lived  is  unknown 
except  to  the  few  surrounding  settlers;  and  still  it 
is  a  success  —  it  fulfils  its  mission,  it  sings  its  song, 
it  gladdens  "each  blade  on  the  soft  dewy  lea,"  it 
reaches  at  last  its  destiny,  the  sea. 

.There  is  but  one  Niagara,  but  many  a  mountain 
canyon  has  its  Beaver  Creek,  and  on  every  hillside 
is  a  rippling  rill.  As  much  credit  is  due  to  the 
rivulet  that  sings  as  to  the  cataract  that  roars  — 
neither  more  nor  less.  The  rivulet  has  no  right  to 
complain,  the  cataract  no  right  to  be  proud. 

The  little  stream,  though  small,  can  reflect  the 

[104] 


CLAIRE  TO  LADD'S  FRIEND 

universe, — it  can  hold  the  moon  and  the  stars  in  its 
bosom  just  as  the  broad,  deep  ocean. 

Moreover,  Beaver  Creek  is  an  epitome  of  God's 
way  of  dealing  with  His  creatures  in  this  world. 
In  the  universe  as  constituted  by  Him  the  humble 
positions  are  vastly  in  the  majority.  We  are  neither 
expected  nor  asked  to  do  much,  but  to  do  a  little  and 
to  do  it  well.  It  is  not  demanded  of  us  to  stamp  our 
characters  on  a  generation,  since  the  strength  and 
the  opportunity  may  not  have  been  given  to  us ;  but 
if  we  greet  the  small  duties  of  each  coming  day  with 
cheerfulness,  throw  a  kindly  word  to  the  passerby, 
drop  a  penny  in  the  poor  man's  hat,  keep  our  lamps 
well  oiled  and  trimmed  in  daily  expectation  of  the 
Bridegroom's  coming,  the  golden  touch  is  ours;  for 
we  have  been  able  to  transmute  the  sodden  affairs 
of  life  into  priceless  riches. 

It  is  not  the  smallness  of  your  life,  but  the  quality 
that  is  important.  Ants  are  small,  yet  if  each  ant 
carries  its  little  pellet  of  sand,  the  ant-hill  soon 
assumes  considerable  size.  It  is  always  so.  The 
obscure  make  history  when  each  man  does  his  duty, 
and  human  progress  is  more  the  result  of  what  takes 
place  in  private  life  than  what  the  giants  do. 

Historians  tell  us  that  only  Richard  could  wield  a 
sword  six  feet  long,  but  victory  in  the  battle  did  not 
depend  so  much  on  Richard's  sword  as  on  the  arrows 
of  his  brave  yeomen.  The  world  consists  of  little 
people  each  doing  his  trifling  task,  but  the  aggregate 
influence  is  something  irresistible  —  a  dynamic  force 
that  can  not  be  withstood,  just  like  innumerable 


MY  AIN  LADDIE 

little  shots  welded  into  one  immense  cannon  ball.  .  . 

The  best  men  and  the  best  women  are  unknown. 
There  is  a  long  list  of  saints  who  have  never  been 
canonized.  Their  names  will  not  be  heard  until  the 
Day  of  Judgment  —  men  who  fought  hard  battles 
with  misfortune  amid  surroundings  too  obscure  for 
recognition.  They  were  never  mentioned  in  dis- 
patches, they  were  never  decorated,  but  some  day 
the  Great  Commander  will  single  them  out — "Friend, 
go  up  higher!" 

Farewell,  little  stream,  farewell!  A  noble  heart 
rests  by  your  banks.  Like  you  he  was  always  giving 
— he  never  thought  of  self  but  only  of  others.  Like 
you  he  sang.  The  sorrows  of  life  served  to  bring 
out  the  better  things  in  him  as  the  rocks  that  hamper 
your  course  only  elicit  from  you  pleasant  music. 
And  as  you  mirror  the  beauties  of  Creation,  so  like 
you  too,  he  always  reflected  the  nobility,  the  good- 
ness, the  mercy  of  his  Creator. 

But  now  his  journey  is  over.  The  long-looked-for 
dash  of  waves  has  been  heard,  and  the  River  at  last 
has  met  and  been  absorbed  by  the  Sea. 

FINIS. 


[106] 


A     000052110 


